


The winding road of secrets and lies

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brotherly Love, Complicated Relationships, Crimes & Criminals, Dubious Morality, Dysfunctional Family, Falling In Love, Friendship, John is a Bit Not Good, Lies, M/M, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Overprotective Mycroft Holmes, Past Drug Use, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Possessive Behavior, Secrets, Sibling Incest, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-03-06 08:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 80,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18847807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: John Watson takes on a mission to infiltrate the household of Mycroft Holmes by order of his new employer, Sebastian Moran, to access information their boss is wishing to get his hands on.To be able to get to Mycroft John will have to befriend his younger brother Sherlock and try to establish a bond with him. But what starts out as a seemingly simple job proves to be much more complicated for John as the Holmes household harbours many dark and unexpected secrets, especially about the very complicated relationship between the two brothers.Under pressure from his boss to follow through with his assignment, Mycroft suspiciously watching his every move and, to complicate matters even more, John beginning to develop feelings for Sherlock, he is beginning to regret ever taking this job.Can he complete his initial plan to steal information from Mycroft and what will happen when Sherlock finds out the truth?





	1. Chapter 1

“Here. This is the target.”

A picture was slammed down on the table.  
It was of a man in his mid to late-thirties, it was difficult to ascertain the true age, he had one of those faces where he could actually be younger than he looked on account of going for a particular choice of clothes and style. He presented the picture of a bureaucrat in a sartorial grey suit, thinning dark hair, cleanshaven with a hint of a weak chin that despite that fact still protruded defiantly towards the photographer. Together with the steely blue eyes and a rather prominent nose he looked like he was challenging anyone daring to give him a glance, a superior sneer making up the lower part of his face, the very equivalent of someone very sure of himself and who at the same time considered others not to be worthy of his time or effort.

“Who is he?”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Never heard of him.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Most people haven't. But in certain quarters his name will send a shiver of fear down people’s spines.”

John looked at the picture, assessing the man, knowing full well that whatever he was about to hear couldn’t be gleaned from looking at this photo. In reality it was just a man, nothing spectacular about him, and yet his boss’s words told him that this was his next mission.

“To put it bluntly: He is of massive intellect and has the Government’s ear at his disposal, whatever he whispers takes the form of actual decisions and he is known to wield that power in whatever direction he sees fit, no thought for sentiment an no hesitation on account of morality. Basically, he’s the man that makes the difficult decisions no one else wants to even begin to contemplate. He is a cold-hearted bastard basically, if a heart even resides inside that Savile Row suit of his. Though as nails.”

“So, in short, like most politicians?”

John’s boss gave him a measured look before continuing.

“He isn’t a politician. He is some sort of eminence grise, works in the shadows but has no official title and it suits him perfectly I’d say. It’s easier to be someone like him when you don’t have to expose yourself to the public eye. What is known of him privately suggests he likes operating in the dark anyway. Notoriously difficult to get access to, both professionally but even more so on a personal level, it is considered close to impossible. He has no known weaknesses. Not for any imaginable version of sex, not for alcohol or drugs, gambling, fast cars, money or even power, he’s more or less living like a monk in bespoke clothing. Sure, he enjoys good food and the occasional drink, as you can see, he is a bit on the plump side, so does indulge himself, but there is nothing that would get him into trouble or could be used to tempt him with. Believe me, attempts have been made over the years.”

“That sounds encouraging. A real challenge then,” John snorted but still with a tone of curiosity in his voice. He wasn’t put off by the mission just yet, even if he had difficulty seeing what exactly it was he was supposed to do to this seemingly incorruptible man.  
What John normally dealt with was mostly more straightforward. This sounded far too intricate and frankly he was surprised that a man like Mycroft Holmes was of any interest to his boss. He seemed utterly dull.

“The toughest aspect is that he is more or less a self-proclaimed loner. He prefers his own company over others.”

“That sounds difficult in his line of work.”

“Oh, he meets people, of course. But it’s more like he exists in a world that is also occupied by others but he has no interest whatsoever in any of them and therefor does not interact with them if not absolutely necessary. He has an office for work purposes, an assistant that handles everything he delegates to her, staff that works for him and he is actually even a member of a gentlemen’s club. But that particular club is not exactly living up to the usual concept of a place where people meet and socialize in their free time. To begin with it has a ban against talking, to prevent members to feel forced to interact with each other. And the members themselves... well let’s put it this way: this club is likely the only place that would tolerate them and their peculiarities.”

“Meaning?”

“They are a bunch of stuffy remnants from a time long gone. A club for introverts. What you do there is mainly to sit and contemplate your own thoughts, read a paper the old fashioned-way, have a drink perhaps or stare out the window. All in complete silence of course. The senior butler is even a deaf-mute. Where they managed to dig him up I’ll never know but he’s been there for as long as the club has been around and he looks ready to fall over at any second. But at least he’s being quiet.”

“And this is the preferred place of choice for Mr Holmes?”

“Yes, one of them, but not a place for you to try to gain access to. New members a few and far between. He only has three recurring places where he spends his time. This club of course, the Diogenes, as it is called. Then Whitehall where his office is located and where he spends most hours of the day. And then finally there is his home. An old Georgian house in Holland Park, three stories high despite the fact that he lives there all alone. Or rather, he did until recently. And this is exactly the factor that has provided us with the opportunity to infiltrate the impenetrable fortress he has created around himself and his life. For natural reasons Whitehall is off limits to us and the Diogenes is equally difficult to gain access to. Until recently his house was also under that category. Despite its very elegant but old-fashioned facade it is heavily supervised both inside and out, pandering to Mycroft Holmes very strong paranoia and need for control. He clearly suffers from an extreme control issue and he certainly has the resources to keep that particular weakness satisfied.”

“So he has a weakness after all?” John asked and his boss frowned, as if not knowing how to best answer that question. He had obvious difficulty pinning down exactly what kind of animal Mycroft Holmes was and that was unusual.

“I don’t know if I would call it a weakness per se. To others it might be limiting to demand such control over every aspect of your life, the need to know exactly everything that goes on, however insignificant it may seem to others. But in his case, it just makes him even more powerful and a very difficult target for us. Nothing, and I mean _nothing_ , gets past that man.”

John sighed, feeling a sense of defeat even before fully knowing every detail of this mission. It already felt like an impossibility to get close to this man.  
Sure, he liked a good challenge but this seemed beyond doable and John didn’t like failing. 

While he contemplated how to tackle this properly, his boss continued talking.

“For a long time Mycroft Holmes was written off as a lost cause, despite many good efforts to get to him. His staff is vetted so inscrutably that they can never become victims of bribery or manipulation. Besides, he rotates them according to a schedule only he has access to, so even if we managed to manipulate one of them, that person wouldn’t be available for us long enough to do our bidding. Then, the fear people have for this man is far greater than what any monetary offer can be offered as persuasion. He has no obvious intimate bonds that can be used against him as he doesn't cultivate friendships, he has no spouse or a romantic partner, as I mentioned he has no real interest in other people so he doesn’t frequent parties or social gatherings, his parents are dead and even the neighbours have no contact with his household. Basically, he is isolated from any and all human interaction that does not involve his work, and even those communications are very business-like, not always even conducted in person if not strictly necessary. Basically, a man who likes his privacy and makes sure he has it, at all costs.”

“Sounds like the ultimate recluse.”

The boss nodded.

“Yes, and he would be if not for two small but very significant exceptions. There are acctually two persons he interacts with on a fairly regular basis that are not solely related to his work. Well, the first one sort of is, as it is his personal assistant. But she is not to be mistaken for being just anyone from his staff. To begin with she experiences the true rarity of being excluded from the work rotation schedule that all other employees must suffer, and she is probably the closest to being someone he might actually trust, if only a little bit. Still an employee of course, but she is allowed wherever he goes, and she is the person who knows most about him out of all the people he has working for him. But don’t underestimate her. She is loyal to a fault, it’s practically impossible to make her turn on her employer, it simply won’t happen. And before you consider giving it a try anyway, don’t. You will have better luck with the other one. “

“And who is that other person? His trained pet monkey that he keeps in a chain leash for company?”

The boss laughed but John couldn’t shake the irritability he was beginning to feel. Even without having been told the specifics, it was all beginning to sound like a mission impossible with too many strange variables. His boss’s answer surprised him even more when he nodded and said:

“You’re not too far off with that comment actually.”

John raised his eyebrows in disbelief. 

“He actually has a pet monkey?”

“No, it is a person. But that comment about keeping someone in a chain leash might not stray too far from the truth.”

“Meaning? You said he wasn’t married.”

“The only person, beside the PA, that he interacts with, and quite often even, is his younger brother. Seven-year age difference, sharp as a knife, I would even go so far as to call him a genius in his own very peculiar way, but mad as a hatter and unfortunately also a recovering drug addict…well, I say _recovering_ …chances are likely he will be back on them soon enough again. He has been in and out of rehab for most parts of his life and why the older brother feels the need to keep contact with him is something we haven’t been able to figure out, but to our huge luck, he does, and that is where our chance has finally presented itself. The younger brother is the weakness we have been looking for. He was released from rehab abroad a few months ago and now lives with the older brother in the house in Holland Park. Apparently, he used to have a place of his own, on Montague Street if I’m not mistaken, but that place is no longer available after his latest stint in rehab. The older brother clearly wants to keep a closer eye on his errant sibling.”

“And the comment about being kept in chains? What did you mean by that?”

“Well, not much is known about their relationship really and many rumours are contradictory when it comes to the Holmes brothers. But what we have managed to pick up is that the older one likes to keep close tabs on the younger, caring little for breach of personal integrity, and this is an ongoing issue between them and a huge cause for animosity from the younger one. For now, they share a home, how willingly the younger brother has agreed to this is debatable, but Holmes Senior clearly doesn’t care. He provides a keeper that follows junior to his obligatory NA group meetings and to his appointments with a therapist two times a week. At all other times the younger brother is in a sort of house arrest and under strict surveillance. This scenario has actually happened before but has never lasted for a longer period of time. Usually the younger brother manages to escape and head straight for the nearest drug dealer and when the older brother eventually finds him it’s off to rehab again. When we have managed to catch them speaking to each other out in public it is usually in very acerbic tones, there seems to be a lot of resentment simmering beneath the surface, but at the same time, it’s clear that the little brother means everything to the older one. What we need you to do is to establish a connection with Holmes Junior so you can gain access to Mycroft Holmes through him.”

Another picture was produced, slammed upon the table with the same determination as the previous one. John leaned forward to take a closer look.

Surprise dawned on him as watched the person in it.

“Yeah, I know. They look nothing alike,” his boss chuckled, observing John’s open bafflement.

The man in this picture had a wild riot of ebony curls and chiselled features, making him look a bit feline, more delicate than the older brother and certainly younger-looking than just the seven-year age gap provided. With pronounced cheekbones and eyes slightly slanted and too far apart, it highlighted the feral look of an animal even more. His expression was haughty, just as his brother’s, but not in the same fashion. Where the older Holmes brother had exuded an air of disdain, the younger one, with his pouty lips and scowling brow, looked more defiant. He frankly looked like a handful, probably the cause of his older brother’s thinning hair, what with all that drug business going on. 

“What’s his name?”

“Sherlock.”

John gave the photograph one final look before turning to face his boss again.

“So, what exactly is it you want me to do?”

“Mycroft Holmes has many things we would like to get our hands on and if it were possible, we would go for the man himself, having him on our side would be an invaluable asset. But considering the type of man that he is, it is simply not an option. But having the next best thing actually is. One of the many aspects that make him so influential is his access to many _other_ powerful people, he is for example a member of an exlusive group that has the most advanced technology and knowledge available, the power to break or make a whole nation. We want at least one member of that group at our disposal, a contact on the inside. Even if Mycroft Holmes would rather die than betray any secrets, not everyone is of that same ilk."

"Why not simply go after them directly instead? Seems like a waste of time doing it through this man," John pointed out, but his boss just shook his head.

"The problem is that we have no idea who any of the other eight members of the group are. They never meet together all at once and the only one who knows the identities of the whole group is Mycroft Holmes. He was the one who originally put this group together and he handpicked every one of the members himself.”

“Doesn’t that mean that in all probability they are just as staunch as he is? Copies of their leader?”

“It would be impossible to find eight other individuals with exact replicas of his personality traits and who also possess the power and intelligence that he requires for this specific group. Not to mention the absolute lack of any sort of weakness. There can only be one Mycroft Holmes, that’s what makes him unique. Ice man is a moniker he goes by in the circles he frequents, and that name is actually pretty accurate. If there were others just like him, he wouldn't hold the position that he does.”

“If he is as smart as you claim, he hardly has a list of the other members lying around the house. How am I to get this information?”

“You need to make a connection with the younger brother. Once that is established, use it to your advantage, preferably gaining access to their house. The older brother is notoriously known for interfering with whoever associates with the younger, so if you manage to make a connection with Sherlock, Mycroft will surely try to make contact with you and then the rest will follow. If nothing truly works and you fail getting access to the house, there is always the pressure point of drugs and the threat of harm to Holmes junior. Blackmail is not optimal, it would risk your safety as big brother would come after you like hell fire afterwards, but if that is the only solution, then so be it. You will have to figure it out as you go along.”

John didn’t really like the sound of taking advantage of another person’s weakness, be it drugs or something else, but in this line of business, he had learned not to put too much thought into the effects of his actions. It was a job, as simple as that. A good paying one too, and one where he could still feel the rush of danger and excitement surging through his body, a feeling he had missed desperately after having been injured and sent home from the army.  
As luck would have it, he had not been forced to experience the sedentary life of a civilian for too long. 

Colonel Sebastian Moran, discharged a year before his own departure, and a man John had befriended during his years on the field, had caught wind of his return and made a visit a couple of weeks after his arrival to England. 

Afterwards, perhaps even during the actual visit, John had recognised the cleverness in visiting a man still reeling from the experience of war, not having yet been accustomed to life away from the field. Such a person was much more likely to accept the kind of offer Moran had made him, which in the beginning had been presented with the very vague description of being a private agent but in reality had been of the even more fuzzy variety of what was best described as a henchman, making it very difficult to articulate exactly what it was he was doing for a living. If someone ever made the effort to start digging into that topic it was perhaps for the best to be as ambiguous as possible.

His first mission had been to track down a man who owed a huge debt to the man Moran worked for, in extension also John’s boss, although he had never met him. As it were, Moran was his closest boss and the less he knew about the people above his paygrade, the better.

All John had been required to do, was track the target down, which had taken less than two days, and when having done that, he just had to keep the man in place until reinforcements arrived. John could figure out the rest but had not been forced to participate himself.  
It was a pretty simple mission but had been exciting enough and as the pay was good and all he had really done was to search for a man in London with the aid of some high tech tracking device and his own clever mind, he had decided to stay with the job.

But as time went by the line of his own moral principles as well as what was expected of him had shifted and he had on rare occasions actually been part of minor assaults as well as a kidnapping scenario once. Something inside him had hardened since joining up with Moran and their mysterious boss but it no longer kept him up at night with a guilty conscience, and at least he had never killed anyone who hadn’t deserved it.  
The first time he actually did use the weapon he had managed to take with from the army, it had been against a man who had come charging at him with a butcher’s knife, so he had no qualms afterwards about pulling the trigger and after that incident he grew accustomed to using the gun when necessary.  
Whatever situation he was faced with he adjusted to the circumstances quickly. 

Mostly his job was to search for targets and sometimes infiltrate their lives to gain information or access to something his employer wanted.  
That was more in line with the James Bond idea of the job he had at first imagined it to be, and also what he enjoyed doing the most.  
The people he tracked down were never just ordinary law-abiding citizens, so there was a small comfort in that thought, because even if he didn’t like to dwell too much on what the job he was doing really meant, he knew that even if his employer was a shady character, the targets were more or less criminals as well and that made it more tolerable for him.

Take Mycroft Holmes for example.  
What man had that kind of power without the temptation to abuse it after his own agenda?  
John’s boss had mentioned that Holmes had no scruples when wielding his influence on the people making the important decisions in the country. That he had the authority to rule a whole country behind the curtains and never be made accountable for his decisions and actions, that he could acctually steer Government opinion in whatever direction he chose and at the same time be a person who lacked all sense for humanity, who despised the company of other people and cared for no one but himself and his brother, such a person could simply not belong on the good side.

John looked at the pictures of the brothers one last time before nodding affirmatively. Locking eyes with Moran he braced himself for the task at hand.

“I’ll need everything you have on Sherlock Holmes in a portfolio by tomorrow,” he said.

“It’s already been arranged. Here.”

He was handed a small memory stick.

“It contains all we know about him. It isn’t much, but it should help you establish a bond with him. Best option should be to make contact at the next NA meeting in two days.”

John prepared himself to leave when his boss placed a hand on his arm in a cautious gesture.

“This might seem like a pretty straight up job. But don’t underestimate these brothers. Whatever you read on that memory stick will not fully prepare you for anything, so don’t expect to be an expert when you’re done reading. He is just as tricky as the older brother, perhaps even more so, and you’ll have to work pretty hard at establishing any sort of relationship with him. Don’t even try to do the same with the older one, it won’t work. Just concentrate on Sherlock and keep your mind on the mission, resort to a tougher strategy only if absolutely necessary.”

Without answering, John simply nodded and then left. 

He had some reading to do before getting to work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets to work, doing some research before coming up with a plan to make his first contact with Sherlock. An unexpected opportunity presents itself.

The file did, as Moran had already told him, not contain much useful information.  
Sherlock Holmes had indeed been a frequent patient at numerous rehab facilities, all from the tender age of 17 apparently. He was now 28.  
_So, a life well spent then_ , John muttered to himself as he was reading, not being able to hide a hint of irritation over what was being revealed on the memory stick.

A botched-up University education at Cambridge, where Sherlock had managed the whole first year studying chemistry without interruption, but had then fallen back into addiction, cocaine apparently, before the second year had fully started. He spent three months in rehab before coming back to continue his studies and actually fulfilled the second year by some strange miracle, but fell back to his addiction again during the summer before year three and after that he never returned to his studies again.

John thought about what Moran had said about Sherlock Holmes being close to a genius.  
Well, he had apparently been an excellent student despite the interruptions by drug abuse. The fact that he had succeeded in passing year two despite being away for three months was admittingly impressive, especially as you considered that he was studying advanced chemistry.  
John remembered how he himself had hated the very limited but still mandatory chemistry class he had been forced to endure while in medical school and wondered how someone so clearly gifted in the brain department still behaved like a pet in a hamster wheel when it came to drugs. 

Granted, he knew what addiction could do to a person. His own sister had once been a promising law school student but now nurtured her alcoholism with the mixture of stubborness and self-hatred while she struggled to keep her work at a small office supply company. He had long ago given up on her managing to quit drinking. 

Pushing thoughts of his sister aside John continued to read.

Sherlock had lived with his brother on several occasions but never for more than a month or two at a time. Either he ended up back in rehab or he left the country for a while. Occasionally it seemed as if he simply disappeared. 

It was the same pattern repeating itself every time, beginning with Sherlock ending up in trouble, big brother coming to the rescue, a stint in a rehab facility and then either a move back in with Mycroft afterwards, a disappearance act or a trip abroad. What Sherlock actually did when out of England was unclear, there was no information available, but he was always brought home by his brother eventually. 

During three instances he had managed to have a home of his own, not living with his brother. 

The first time had been at Cambridge, during the university years. He had rented a flat by himself for the first six months, then moved in with another student named Victor Trevor for the rest of the year. That arrangement had apparently ended by the time year two began and the drugs interferred, after returning after rehab he once again lived on his own in the original flat. As he had left Cambridge for the final time he had returned to his brother's home. 

Less than a year after ending his studies he had moved in with Victor Trevor again, this time in a flat in London. It wasn't stated anywhere if Trevor was a boyfriend, lover or simply a friend, but John suspected some sort of romantic, or at least sexual attachement between them.  
That arrangement had lasted less than a year and ended with Trevor suddenly falling into misfortune when the family business went bankrupt and his father was jailed for embezzlement. As the flat had belonged to Trevor and every asset was confiscated in the bankruptcy Sherlock was again homeless. Trevor seemed to have disappeared from his life when the scandal hit his family and Sherlock had left the country shortly after, only to be brought back three months later by his brother.

It was like reading a text that just kept repeating itself. Whatever Sherlock went through in his life there was always the same outcome - rehab, disappearing or living with his brother. The man was clearly a lost soul and unable to look after himself. It was actually surprising that the older brother had the patience to deal with this mess as regularly as he did.

Among the more factual details about Sherlock John could see that he was an excellent violinist, spoke several languages, still liked chemistry, favoured cocaine over other drugs but made do with anything if necessary and had once owned a dog. Nothing else.  
That wasn’t much to work with.

John sighed as he closed down the file and pulled out the memory stick, breaking it by crushing it under his foot before disposing of the broken pieces in the bin.

Moran had suggested that John should make his first move in two days’ time at the next NA meeting, but Sherlock didn’t strike John as a person who would feel inclined to open up to just anyone by talking about his addiction. If there was one thing he had learned from his sister it was that addicts that still were users, even if temporarily rehabilitated, hated to talk about their addiction.  
Sherlock Holmes clearly fell into that category. His addiction was still a recurring thing, the pattern was evidence enough. This was just an intermission while waiting for the next time to succumb to the lure of drugs and he was probably only attending these meetings as a stipulation of being allowed out of rehab. Perhaps he had promised his brother.

No, John had to come up with something else than a chance meeting at the NA.

He thought about the face of the younger brother that he had seen on the photo earlier today: the sharp angles and wild curls, those piercing eyes. There was something brittle about him as well as something hard and stubborn. He seemed defiant.  
John couldn't help but think about him in that house, alone with his brother who thought the rest of the population were beneath him and unimportant. He wondered how Sherlock felt about the situation. Was the reason he was allowed to live there purely on account of being a family member or did Mycroft Holmes actually like the company of his brother, despite disliking the company of everybody else?

John was strongly tempted to take a look at their house, just to check it out, see if he could catch a glimpse of his target. But it was risky to be seen loitering about if he was to form a connection with Sherlock later on. He couldn’t be caught stalking and Moran had mentioned that the house was heavily supervised. 

He wasn’t that good with disguising himself or playing a part, he never had learned the art of lying either, but if he just strolled by randomly?  
Perhaps he could wear something that shielded the major part of his face, the most recognisable features? People generally didn’t look too closely at people passing by, but Mycroft Holmes with his paranoia and control issues, who knew what he deemed important to keep an eye out for?

Finally deciding that he would take the chance by putting on a baseball cap and some sunglasses while flipping the collar of his jacket, deciding against also wearing a hoodie, as he didn’t want to look too much like person flying under the radar, he went out and took the tube to Notting Hill Gate and walked the rest of the way, until he reached the street in Holland Park were the Holmes brothers resided.

The street was fairly empty, a few cars parked by the curb and someone walking a dog further up the road, but otherwise it was very quiet. Perhaps it was on account of the time, it was still afternoon and people hadn’t begun coming home from work yet. On the other hand, this was a fancy neighbourhood, people didn’t do 9-5 jobs here. 

The Holmes residence was on the far end of the street, he could spot it as he approached and despite not wanting to draw attention to himself he chanced a glance in its direction without actually turning his head when he approached it and walked by. It was a beautiful white house, pillars surrounding the entrance and bay windows on two of the floors, a small ornamental French balcony on the third.

He couldn’t see any movement in the windows but Sherlock was most likely inside the three-story building somewhere, as Moran had mentioned that he enjoyed the dubious joy of being under house arrest. John couldn't see a car parked outside the house, so maybe that meant that Mycroft wasn’t home at the moment.  
On the other hand, maybe they didn’t have a car of their own? Maybe they used cabs or a chauffeur driven car service that provided the rides but didn’t stay permanently parked outside their house when not used? 

As John normally spent a considerable amount of time stalking his targets before making a move, all these details automatically entered his mind as he walked by the house, trying to look for cameras or other surveillance equipment, but not spotting anything but the intercom outside the front door.  
There was a simple black iron gate outside the premises at the front but no doubt there was something more substantial at the back of the house. Not wanting to risk catching anyone's attention he decided not to check that detail out. This time he would have to try gaining entrance to the house by invitation instead.

As he had passed, there was suddenly a black car rolling up the street towards him, passing and then stopping right behind.  
He risked turning his head, as if he was just randomly taking a peek and could see that it had stopped outside the Holmes house. 

Silently he swore over his bad luck, if he had arrived a little later he would have been able to spot who got out of the car without having to draw attention to himself. As it was now, he couldn’t risk turning his head and stare without being noticed.

All he could think of was to bend down and pretend to tie his shoelace before continuing his walk. That way he could at least hear if something was being said. 

Crouching down he quickly loosened his laces on his left shoe and then slowly did them up again while he heard a car door being opened, steps across the pavement and then another car door opening.

At first John didn’t really expect anything more, after all, why would a person getting out of a car feel the need to talk? But just as he was about to rise from his position, he heard a crisp voice with clipped vowels behind his back.

“Be here by seven to pick us up, the concert starts at eight thirty.”

“Yes, Sir.”

John rose and began walking away. There was no sound behind his back of steps moving from the car and John wondered if Mycroft was remaining where he was, watching him. He had the prickling sensation of being observed but couldn’t confirm it by turning his head. He had to simply keep on walking.

“Was there something else, Sir?” the voice of the driver could be heard asking, a note of hesitation in it and finally the sound of steps was heard, John sensing himself relax a bit.

“No, that’s all for now.” 

Mycroft Holmes voice was already a little more distant than a second ago. He was clearly heading for the gates now.

“Fine, sir. I’ll be here at seven, plenty of time to get to Cadogan Hall before the concert starts.”

There was no reply, simply the sound of the iron gate being opened. The chauffeur was clearly dismissed.

John hurried his steps, increasing the distance between him and the house and soon he was out of sight. 

So they were going to a concert?  
By using the term “us” Mycroft surely meant himself and his brother, who else could it be, considering Mycroft's disdain for the company of others? 

In an instant John saw his opportunity!

A concert hall was the perfect place for bumping into a person, to initiate contact, disguised by the fact that it would be full of other concert goers and no one would think it strange that he was there. The question was if he would be able to get an actual ticket to the concert itself or if he would have to resort to other tactics to reach Sherlock?

Hurrying home he used the ride on the tube to do research on his phone about what type of concert was being held at eight thirty at Cadogan Hall this evening, a tingle of excitement surging through him at this unexpected opportunity.  
It seemed his contact with Sherlock Holmes was going to happen sooner than he had anticipated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Sherlock for the first time, but things don't exactly go as expected.

The concert was Bach: Mass in B minor and had been sold out for weeks.  
Fortunately Cadogan Hall was open for anyone to enter the foyer and bar at least, if not the auditorium, and after making a quick call to Moran, demanding assistance with getting the right attire for an evening of classical music, John made himself ready by taking a shower and reading up a bit on the music and the orchestra on his computer. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fool anyone into thinking that he was a classical music enthusiast, but it was good to at least be a little prepared. Considering that Sherlock played the violin, music might well be a good conversation opener, even if John was more into The Beatles than string instruments.

At six a nice suit arrived, not the penguin variety in black and white that he had expected, but a casual business suit in light grey and a crisp shirt.  
He was glad that he had asked for help with the appropriate attire, it would not have served his purpose by showing up dressed to the nines and sticking out among the other concertgoers. Considering that he had to loiter about in the foyer waiting for a chance to catch Sherlock in the interval, he couldn’t risk drawing too much attention to himself.

After getting dressed he left, heading for Cadogan Hall in a cab but opted for walking the final distance in the early dusk of the London evening. letting the fresh air clear his head, readying him for his task.

By his calculations he would reach the venue before the brothers so he could watch them arrive, observe their attire and pick out a detail in Sherlock’s appearance to keep a look for in the crowd, making him easier to spot.  
The concert was a long affair, over three hours, and assumingly the brothers would need at least one toilet break, and also most likely, they wouldn’t go together like some juvenile schoolgirls. If John was really lucky they wouldn't even spend the whole interval together, considering the amount of time the spent in each other’s company otherwise, a break would surely be appreciated?  
Especially Sherlock, who so regularly tried to break free, would surely welcome a little breathing space when offered one? John kept his fingers crossed for a good opportunity to get the younger brother on his own.

Just before eight o'clock he spotted them getting out of the same black car he had seen earlier today.  
It was the first time he saw Sherlock Holmes in the flesh, and he had been curious to see if the picture was a good indication of what the man really looked like.

As they stepped out of the car and made their way towards the entrance he had a good view of them, Sherlock taking up the lead, Mycroft shadowing him close by. The brothers were both nicely dressed, bespoke most likely, although John wasn’t an expert. 

Sherlock did indeed look like he had done in the photo, but perhaps even more magnetic, with the dark curls moving slightly in the evening breeze and a black suit enveloping a slim, firm and tall body, long legs striding quickly away from the car.  
He did actually have a white shirt under the suit, but the lack of a tie and the top buttons opened, exposing some skin, made the otherwise formal dress seem more relaxed, sleek but not stuffy. 

Unlike his brother.

Mycroft was more conservatively dressed in a grey herringbone three-piece suit, even sporting a fob chain and gloves, as well as a Crombie coat despite the weather not really encouraging more clothes than necessary.  
There was a slight breeze, but still, it was a spring evening, no need to go for so many layers. Perhaps it was out of habit.  
It was difficult picturing Mycroft Holmes in casual wear, he had an air of severity and conservatism about him. 

John watched their interaction as they passed him, not close enough for them to notice him but close enough for him to make a good observation.  
Their body language was very different from each other’s, Sherlock's whole form sent out waves of pent-up energy, he seemed on the verge of restlessness but his face conveyed no further clues, whereas Mycroft was far more rigid and reserved in his movements, wishing to keep up with his brother but not deigning to pick up the pace. His face was stern, and he probably wished he had a leach with which to reign his younger brother in. 

None of them said a word to each other, perhaps they had been having an argument in the car? Their body language would certainly imply it.

John made the effort to observe them a few more times before they entered the auditorium. Sherlock was actually quite easy to spot in the crowd, his dark hair and his tall slender frame in the black suit made him stand out among the other concertgoers who were mostly older but also dressed differently. Most wore suits and dresses, no jeans or t-shirts in sight, but of a much more casual style and they lacked the elegance with which Sherlock carried himself.  
Mycroft was also more sartorial than most of the them, but not as striking perhaps as his younger brother, he had a more subdued sophistication about him. 

Not once did John see them talk and he felt even more certain that there was some sort of silent war going on between them. 

He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.  
It could benefit him if he wanted to catch Sherlock alone, he was the one who seemed most put out at the moment out of the two brothers, the look in his eyes smouldering with some repressed emotion and therefore most likely to be the one wishing to break free. 

But on the other hand it wouldn’t suit John’s purposes of getting close to Mycroft via Sherlock if their relationship was strained. Getting to know Sherlock under those circumstances would simply be a waste of time.  
John wasn’t sure about the time frame of this mission, but from experience he knew that Moran and his boss expected results fairly quickly, none of them liked the long game. 

He would try this option, but if he noticed that the brothers weren’t as close as Moran had thought he would have to change tactics. No use in getting close to someone who wasn't able to get John closer to his real target.

Perhaps the reason for Sherlock's displeasure was because he was tired of the house arrest? And who could blame him for that?  
It seemed like a dreary existence. 

John wondered what the reason for his drug use was. A way to escape the boredom of his life or was there something else behind it? 

If the effort to initiate contact tonight failed, he should go to the NA meeting in two days and maybe he might actually find some answers there. 

On the other hand, if Sherlock was anything like John’s sister, he wouldn’t be able to give a satisfying answer if asked about his problems.  
John had never managed to get Harry to tell him anything about the reason for her alcohol abuse and that was also a huge part of the reason why he had difficulty staying in touch with her.  
Her drinking was always that huge awkward elephant in the room that he couldn’t help but poke at, much to her irritation, and then they were at until one of them stormed out. 

_Siblings_ , he thought with a sigh as he saw the back of the Holmes brothers disappear into the auditorium. _seldom is there a relationship so fraught with resentment as between people sharing the same background without the option of choice._

 

During the first act he had to simply plant himself at the bar, pretending to be a man who was waiting for someone who was running late.  
The bartender looked like he wanted to inform John that his date had likely stood him up, but didn’t actually do so, instead he simply served a glass of wine and offered his commiserations before going about his work while talking to one of the ushers who also lingered in the area, so John was left to his own devises.

He hadn't expected to get his chance with Sherlock until the interval, but with fifteen minutes to go and starting to feel a bit bored walking around the foyer, he was pleasantly surprised to see the doors to the auditorium open and a familiar figure striding out, almost running towards the exit.

For a second John thought that Sherlock was actually making a run for it, but the fact that Mycroft wasn’t following suggested something else. 

Giving the other man a little head start he casually walked over to the exit himself and opened the doors, eyes searching for his target.

Sherlock was easily visible, leaning against one of the pillars of the concert hall, back turned against the door and therefor not able to spot John at first. But somehow he still seemed to sense John's presence because without turning around he hissed out sentence and it was clearly aimed at John.

“You can tell your employer that I’ll be back in time for the second act, I just need some air. And a smoke, which I would have been enjoying if that imbecile hadn’t taken away my cigarettes!” 

“Excuse me?” If John had a tone of surprise in his voice it was because he actually was caught off guard a bit. Who did Sherlock imagine he was?

“Oh, we’re playing the pretend game are we? Where _does_ he find you people? Does he put up adverts on that board next to the check-out line at Tesco’s? Simpleton wanted for babysitting job in Belgravia, use of brain to a minimum and must like having a dictator for a boss?”

Despite the quite venomous tone John couldn’t help but let out a laugh of surprise.  
This was not at all what he had expected their first interaction to be like.

At the sound of his laugh Sherlock twirled around, anger still eminent in his features but also a tinge of astonishment, as if he wondered who would dare laugh at him.

Not that John was laughing at him in per se, it was more a reaction to the absurdness of the situation, things were certainly not going like he had imagined them to. Maybe he should have been more prepared.

But things had a way of resolving themselves without preparations sometimes, because mere seconds after having turned around to face John, his eyes roaming over him in a piercing glare, did Sherlock’s anger decrease a bit, his suspicion vanishing as well.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about…,” John began but Sherlock simply shook his head as he was already fully aware of this fact now.

“Yes, sorry. I thought you were someone else. You’re clearly not,” he mumbled. 

“You expected simpleton from the sound of it?”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John continued.

“Lucky me you made a mistake. “

Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t say you aren’t a simpleton. You’re just not the simpleton I expected it to be.”

Ouch.

But instead of allowing himself to feel offended John kept his calm.

“And who did you think I was?”

Sherlock shrugged, as if it suddenly was irrelevant now.

“Not important. By looking at you I can see that you’re clearly not who I thought you were.”

“By _looking_ at me? What do you mean by that?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently and waived his hand airily as he explained.

“Looking, deducing, whatever you want to call it. With a glance I can tell that you are a former surgeon, back from a stint abroad, most likely an army doctor of some sort. You don’t practise your occupation anymore, the wound in your shoulder put an end to that and is also the reason for your return home. It wasn’t too recent though; I would say about a year ago. You have managed to land on your feet and find a new occupation you enjoy. Quite simple really and definitely not the person I was expecting.”

John felt floored by the rush of words coming out of the other man’s mouth and for a second he didn’t know what to say. Did Sherlock know who he was even before John had really begun his task? Had he somehow been compromised? 

“How…?” he began, still struck by shock, his thoughts whirling now. He had never before failed at a mission, especially not when it hadn't even properly started yet. What was he supposed to do now? And how _did_ Sherlock know all of this about him?

As if being able to read his thoughts, Sherlock made yet another sigh and began explaining, setting off in a whirlwind of a pace while doing so, forcing John to struggle to keep up. 

“Easy. Your hands bear the signs of someone used to taking good care of them while you also you carry yourself in a way that suggest that you use your fingers for intricate tasks. Who relies a great deal on his hands? A surgeon. It could also be a musician, but other signs tell me that you are not musically gifted. For starters the fact that you have crumpled tonight’s pamphlet of the piece performed at this venue quite thoroughly into your pocket, displaying an irreverence to the work performed here tonight, is something a fellow musician wouldn’t do. So, surgeon it is. There is a stiffness to your left shoulder, indicating some sort of damage done to it. It’s not old or something you were born with as that would mean you would have grown used to it and it wouldn’t bother you. This clearly still does, on account of your stiffness, despite the fact that it does not particularly hurt you. It’s an oddity that still reminds you of its existence. Ergo some sort of wound. Gun or stabbing. Statistically speaking that’s not something you are likely to acquire in London, despite there being armed criminals in the city. So where does a surgeon end up with a wounded shoulder? On the field, serving as an army doctor of course, making the probability of the wound being caused by a firearm the most likely outcome. As the wound deemed you worthless in your old working capacity you were sent home, but not recently as you no longer display any signs of a tan and you carry yourself with the confidence of someone who has grown accustomed to the city. The fact that the wound is still causing you problems by reminding you of its existence indicates that it can’t have been too long ago though, so I would say that you came to London about a year ago. That you have managed to find yourself a new occupation is evident from the fact that you neither have the tell-tale signs of someone who’s been unemployed for a longer time or a person who is careful with his small income. Your shoes are of good quality and bear no signs of wear, you are well-groomed with both product in your hair as well as an after-shave, although granted, it is of a subpar variety from Marks & Spencer’s and not a designer label, and there is also the very suggestive fact that you have rented your outfit for the evening, as it does not fit you properly and you walk in it with the unfamiliarity of something borrowed. No one on welfare would do that just to go to a concert. A concert you clearly don’t value that much, considering the crumpled pamphlet and the fact that you actually never went inside to listen to the music. I would have seen you slip out before me and you were clearly in the foyer before I came out.” 

His speech had been delivered in a machine gun fashion, rattling of facts like a magician pulling out rabbits out of his hat at the speed of sound, making John go from surprised to being positively stunned. And actually, quite impressed despite the fact that it should worry him that Sherlock Holmes seemingly could read him like an open book. 

“That was…amazing!” he blurted out and something in Sherlock’s face shifted slightly, going from being formerly irritated and worked up, to looking a little surprised. 

“You think so?” he asked. 

“Well, yes! Also bordering on being a bit rude, but in general quite spectacular!” John said, unable to let a grin spread over his features. Sherlock contemplated this, then nodded once, as if accepting John's words for the truth. 

“Was I right?” 

“More or less yes.” John conceded. 

Sherlock immediately frowned. 

“What was the less part?” 

“Well, my wounded shoulder didn’t deem me worthless workwise, it just changed my career. I am still very good at what I do.” 

As soon as he had said it, John regretted his words. He really didn’t want to draw attention to what his new occupation actually was.  
And also, he was supposed to make Sherlock like him, not start nit-picking with him over small details. 

It was just that John was a very proud man, he didn’t like to be reminded of what he had once been, even if he logically knew that a man’s profession didn’t automatically reflect on a man’s character. If it did, his character would by now, with his current job, be very tarnished indeed.  
And yet, he was still the same man with the same values he had always been, if maybe a bit more hardened from experience. 

Sherlock didn’t seem offended though. He merely nodded, as if putting that little information away for future reference. 

Silence fell upon them. 

In a second or two this connection would most likely be over if John didn’t get control of the situation. Any minute now it was time for the interval and people would be spilling out from the auditorium, among them Mycroft would surely make his way, looking for his brother. John had to come up with something to make this moment last. 

“Who did you think I was? Before you turned around you seemed quite angry," he said. 

It was like turning off a light, the almost childish glee at being complimented for his skills, quickly disappearing to be displaced by newfound irritation again in Sherlock’s features. John was disappointed to see the happiness gone so quickly. 

“It doesn’t matter. It’s of no interest,” Sherlock said curtly. 

“Indulge me," John offered. "It actually did sound rather entertaining, that babysitting gig in Belgravia. Working for a dictator was it?” 

He smiled teasingly and to his surprise Sherlock’s scowl actually vanished a bit, if not completely. Instead he raised an eyebrow, while looking at John, as if contemplating what to say before finally deciding to offer some information. 

“It’s my brother who’s the dictator.” 

John immediately feigned understanding. 

“Ah, the trouble with siblings. I know all about it.” 

Sherlock shook his head, the curls bouncing around by the movement. 

“I doubt you know the issues with this particular one.” 

“Not more than it assumingly was him who stole your cigarettes?” 

"Not stole. Procured. As if I was a toddler.” 

“He probably cares about your health. Family members tend to do that.” 

“It goes beyond caring with him. He practically smothers me. He’s trying control every aspect of my life and actually has the means to do it as well. You wouldn’t even be able to imagine the lengths he goes to, to do that.” 

There was suddenly a resignation to Sherlock's voice as he was talking, as if he was feeling the injustice of something but was unable to do anything about it or even voice it properly. It seemed uncharacteristic to the otherwise haughty personality he displayed, and it made John once again wonder about the dynamic between the brothers. 

Without the whole picture it was difficult to know how realistic Sherlock actually was. By experience John knew that addicts were experts at playing the victim game, his sister having performed that skill into an art form. 

Behind his back could hear the entrance door finally open and people stepping out into the crisp evening for some air, so the interval was upon them now and time was running out.  
Soon enough Mycroft Holmes would come to manifest himself as well. 

As if sensing the same urgency, Sherlock’s eyes also moved towards the entrance, with a searching expression in them. 

He looked lost and very young in that moment, a boy in a too big costume, the curls swaying in the soft breeze and something tugged at John’s conscience at the sight of it despite always being determined to not get emotionally involved. 

He wasn’t going to do that, this was just like being a physician, you could feel empathy but you still did your job and didn’t get involved beyond what the work demanded of you. 

Be professional, always. He couldn’t afford to care about every person he was assigned to interfere with, he wouldn’t be able to do it if he cared too much and where would that leave him in the end? 

But still…the darkness in Sherlock’s eyes, the unfathomable depth inthem, it was hard to look away. 

So instead of detaching himself as he should, he heard himself say something that he hadn’t really prepared for and certainly didn’t know if it even was a good idea, but he said it anyway. 

“Maybe you need a little breathing space. Why don’t we get out of here?” 

Sherlock’s eyes swivelled from the door back to John, the surprise in them evident. 

“Why?” 

“Because you look like you could need it. And I have nothing better to do. My date for the evening stood me up. That’s why I never went inside to listen to the music.” 

The lie just came rolling over his tongue, easily for once, despite his known track record for being a terrible liar. Perhaps he still was without realising it. But if so, Sherlock didn’t call him out on it, he merely looked at him with narrowed eyes, considering the offer. 

“Where should we go?” he finally asked. 

“Any suggestions?” 

A few. But I’m not completely convinced you would approve.” 

John snorted and it made Sherlock’s mouth twitch as well. But then it turned serious again. 

“He’ll come looking for me.” 

“I’ll return you before the end of the evening, so he needn’t bother.” 

“He won’t know that.” 

“Well, let him be a little clueless for a while then. You’re a grown man and surely capable of managing on your own for an hour or so. Come on, let’s go! Before he comes looking for you. The greater head start the better.” 

There was a gleam in Sherlock’s eyes before he swivelled away from John and started striding away from Cadogan Hall. 

“Come on then!” he said over his shoulder as his pace started to accelerate, "Let's get going!" 

And John wasn’t slow to follow. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock spend a part of the night together before Sherlock needs to return.  
> Mycroft is not pleased and John begins to wonder about the extent of his control over his brother.

When they returned to Cadogan Hall an hour and a half later John’s mind was whirling with impressions and a huge chunk of mixed emotions.  
Sherlock was not at all what he had expected. 

It was difficult to pinpoint exactly what kind of man he truly was, he was probably not exhibiting his inner self to a stranger he had just met outside a concert hall quite randomly on a Wednesday evening. But he was at the same time not holding back on the small peculiarities and personality traits that seemed uniquely his and were making it very difficult to describe who he was in just a few sentences.  
If there was one thing to be said it was that he was like no one John had ever met before.

One of the surprising experiences was that Sherlock seemed to know the city like the back of his hand, which was strange considering that he had spent most of his time locked up, either at his brother’s house or in rehab. Maybe the report John had been given had missed something crucial… ? There should be a reason for this extensive knowledge.  
John considered himself fairly familiar with the area of greater London but soon realised he had nothing on Sherlock who led them through every backstreet and obscure route the city had to offer, in their very limited time frame. 

At first John wondered about the strange pathways Sherlock was guiding him through, it seemed very random and he avoided all the main streets with detemination, but soon John noticed that there was nothing random about the choices Sherlock made and when he finally succumbed to actually ask, he was given the very vague explanation that they were staying out of sight. 

“From who? Your brother?”

“Obviously.”

John couldn’t help but laugh at this with a hint of disbelief. 

“No offence, but with the distance we have put between ourselves and the concert hall, there is no way he could keep track of our whereabouts. Even if he is out looking with the help of a car, it would be impossible to find us, the city is too big, where would he even begin?”

Sherlock sighed, as if John was being particularly slow-witted.

“He hasn’t left Cadogan Hall. No need for him to physically move just to initiate a search for me. He has other alternatives to use for that purpose. He is most likely sitting firm in his seat in the auditorium, listening to the second act of the performance while at the same time ignoring the request to keep all mobile phones turned off during the concert. He needs to keep himself alert to the progress of the search while still enjoying the comfort of his chosen activity for the evening. He doesn’t do leg work you see. Detests it, always have, even as a child.”

This information didn't actually make the situation clearar as far as John was concerned.

“But how does he conduct a search if he hasn’t even left the building? Has he sent for someone to look for you?”

“No, although that wouldn’t be beneath him, I'm fairly sure at least one member of the audience was there solely to keep an eye on me... But there is no need to send someone out on a pointless chase when you have access to the greatest surveillance system in the whole of Europe, with half a million cameras available at your disposal. No need to move a finger when they could do the job for you.”

It took a few seconds for John to grasp what Sherlock was actually saying.

“Do you mean the CCTV-system? The actual public security cameras?”

“Exactly.”

“He has access to that?”

John knew that Mycroft had power, but that sounded straight out incredulous.

“Unfortunately. But I’ve become pretty good at knowing how to avoid them. Doesn’t stop him from putting up new ones of course, there are usually some surprises everytime I get the opportunity to experience London on my own, but still, I’ve learned how to spot them before getting caught on camera. Big brother is simply not keeping up.”

“Big brother indeed…,” John mumbled, still having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that there was a man who had the whole CCTV-system at his disposal and that he used it for keeping track of his little brother.  
Half a million cameras, all in the hands of a paranoid control freak with a penchant for keeping his wayward brother both in place and in sight. It was quite baffling and also a bit frightening.  
He was beginning to see why his boss had taken such an interest in the power and influence of Mycroft Holmes.

Eventually they ended up on a roof top, overseeing a huge part of the city with the familiar landmarks casting silhouettes against the evening sky, as well as the dark grey waters of the Thames running through it, it was a breath-taking sight to behold. 

John had never before contemplated how magnificent London looked like when viewed from this bird's eye angle, the old combined with the modern, historical buildings mixed in with the new ones, the London Eye forming its familiar shape by the water and S:t Paul’s Cathedral with its impressive towering, the grittiness of all the old stone houses in the city combined with the more sleek business constructions, it was a beautiful and overwhelming sight to take in.

They didn’t speak while up there, they just enjoyed the sight as if alone in the moment but at the same time strangely connected by sharing this experience together. Like everything with this evening John had difficulty putting words to what he was feeling, but on the other hand, did it matter if he could explain it or not? 

For now he was simply enjoying it.

As they approached the concert hall afterwards, Sherlock slowed down a bit and just before crossing the street where Cadogan hall was ominously waiting for the run-away to return to his brother, he stopped all together and turned to face John.

“I think this is where you should leave. I wouldn’t recommend you going back to the concert.”

It was a slightly abrupt ending to a very intriguing evening and John was hesitant to just letting it end like this. Besides, he needed to make sure that Sherlock wouldn’t just slip away without a promise to see him again. He wouldn’t be able to fake another run-in without rousing suspicion, London was simply too big and Sherlock’s world so very limited at the moment, it simply wasn't doable. 

Still reeling from the experiences of the evening and his mind trying to come up with a way this wouldn't mean good bye forever, he felt unsure of how to really say this but in the spur of the moment decided to just go for it, so he blurted out:

“Will I see you again?”

Sherlock frowned a bit at this, confusion evident in his features.

“Why?”

“Because I enjoyed myself tonight. Far better than the date I was supposed to have had. And maybe you enjoyed yourself as well?”

“We don’t know each other,” Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing, clear suspicion in his voice now.

“Does that matter?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, scrutinizing him that way he had done earlier in the evening, before the whole deduction thing.

That performance was still resonating inside John’s mind and he wasn't yet completely sure how anyone could know so much about another person just by looking at them. 

As if coming to a conclusion Sherlock finally shrugged and the scrutiny was gone, just as quick as it had appeared.

“I guess not. I should warn you though, if this is some sort of substitute for your evening’s crushed dating aspirations, I’m not interested. I don’t _do_ the dating thing.”

John felt a bit caught off guard by this suggestion, especially as he had got the feeling that Sherlock hadn’t really bought the initial lie about John’s supposed date and John because of that very fact had insisted on keeping up the pretence, like a child continuing with a lie despite suspecting that no one was falling for it. 

He was none the less surprised that Sherlock felt the need to voice that he wasn’t interested in anything beyond camaraderie or whatever it was they had started to develop between them. It was too early to put a lable on anything and besides, in reality Sherlock was just a means to an end, a way for John to get to Mycroft.  
No reason to put any thought process into what this was, it would be over soon enough. 

When John had gained access to whatever it was that could be linked to Mycroft's secret group of power and influence, this mission would be over and Sherlock would be neither a friend, aquintance or anything else.

But the fact that Sherlock claimed that he didn't do the dating thing still confused John at bit, because surely Victor Trevor had been more than just a flatmate? There had been nothing conclusive in the file on that subject, but surely, considering circumstances, there had to have been more to it? 

But maybe that was the reason Sherlock didn't do romance anymore though? 

Mentally shaking away any further musings on the subject John made sure to get back to the situation at hand and instead of wasting another second thinking about the significance of Sherlock’s words he vehemently shook his head and put his hands out in denial.

“Nothing like that. Like you said, we don’t even know each other. I simply had a fun evening and would like to do something similar again soon. If you’re up to it?”

A flash of relief crossed Sherlock’s features, quickly replaced by indifference.

“I don’t normally do things on repeat without purpose, but I guess we could meet again. I’m not always available though. I have an appointment in the city on Friday, not strictly of any interest to me and something I would be willing to skip actually. Two o’clock at 59 Elgin Avenue. Wait outside the church.”

It was clearly the NA meeting, but John couldn’t let on that he knew anything about it. 

So Sherlock was thinking of skipping that? As a former physician and also as a relative of an addict a part of John’s mind immediately offered the grumblings of “ _typical addict behaviour-running away from your problems_ ” but his exterior conveyed nothing of that and luckily for him Sherlock had turned his attention to the looming Cadogan hall in front of him, so wasn’t able to see what he was thinking.  
John was almost positive that Sherlock actually could read thoughts if he put his mind to it.

“So what will happen when you return? Will you get into trouble?” he asked, to change the subject.

Sherlock still didn't look at him when he answered.

“Not more than usual. I did return after all. And I did so before the concert was over, so in reality it’s like I never left. My brother and I wouldn’t exactly have spent the interval socialising with each other.”

“Sounds like a complicated relationship…,” John began but Sherlock waived it away impatiently with his hand and took the first step away from him, heading for his own intended destination. 

John knew enough not to follow, despite a wish to actually do so.

“See you Friday then!” he shouted after the retreating figure crossing the road, but received no reply. 

A minute later Sherlock was gone.

John remained where was, waiting, disguised by the now darkened shadows of the evening. 

It was almost a quarter to midnight when the concertgoers finally began leaving the building, most of them getting into waiting cars, others walking away down the street to catch a late bus or a cab. 

The Holmes brothers were among the last to exit. John spotted the car first and then them leaving through the entrance door. 

There was a much clearer disturbance between them now, the animosity simmering beneath the surface at their arrival earlier in the evening was now on full display, Sherlock practically rushing out from the building, but this time he was grabbed firmly by the arm to prevent any attempts at escape. 

There was a small commotion when Sherlock tried shrugging out of the grip, but Mycroft Holmes was clearly stronger than his appearance suggested, because he managed not only to hold on but also force Sherlock to stop fighting him. 

John could hear their raised, agitated voices from where he was standing, mainly Sherlock’s but Mycroft had also turned up the volume a notch. Unfortunately John was unable to make out any actual words, merely the angry tone in deliverance. 

He watched the older brother more or less drag the younger one to the waiting car, clearly beyond caring about the few onlookers who still lingered outside the building. That spoke volumes about the anger Mycroft was experiencing right now, he normally gave the impression of being much more put together and in control of his emotions. 

That this wasn’t a completely unusual scenario was indicated by the driver’s non-plussed facial expression and reluctance to interfere. He merely waited for the door of the car to slam shut behind Mycroft, closed by the man himself and not by the driver which would usually be the case. Then, he simply moved over to the driver’s seat and climbed inside, driving away seconds later.

With much to process about the events of the evening, John hailed a cab so he could sit in silence and think about his next move.  
As nice as being with Sherlock had actually been, it wasn’t his main mission to simply socialize with him and he should not lose focus on the real task at hand.

The next day Moran came for a visit, asking about what progress John had made, as well as collecting the suit. 

John told him about last night, all of it, even if the part about him and Sherlock climbing a roof top to watch the London scenery made him feel like he was revealing a secret he should perhaps have kept to himself.

Moran was thoroughly impressed.

“You actually managed contact ahead of schedule, and successfully as well. Very good, Watson. I actually thought it would take a little longer. Holmes junior is notoriously difficult to get close to. And not only because his brother guards him like dragon. There is something about him that generally puts people off.”

“I didn’t notice any of that," John said. "He was a bit sharp perhaps. Insulted me before he figured out that I wasn’t who he thought I was.”

“Who did he think you were?”

“Someone his brother had sent out to keep an eye on him, I think. It wasn’t completely clear actually.”

Moran snorted.

“Well, I can’t say that I blame him for thinking that.”

John took this moment to mention something that had been bothering him about this whole situation.

“Sherlock said that Mycroft has access to the whole CCTV-system so he can track him down if needed. That wasn’t in the file you gave me.”

Moran merely shrugged.

“That file contained information about _Sherlock_ , not Mycroft. You were given what the boss thought would benefit you in you mission. A similar file does not exist regarding the older brother, information about him that is available is of such official and useless character that it wouldn’t be of any use to you. Only things like where he went to school, where he grew up, information about that made up position he certainly does not occupy in Whitehall, it’s all smokescreens and camouflage with him.”

“But you _do_ know more. You told me yourself, yesterday. The thing about that secret organisation he is a member of for example, that he is a loner, that he only interacts willingly with his brother and his PA. You have more information to give me if you simply wanted to. It clearly wasn’t a surprise to you that he had access to the CCTV-system.”

Moran shook his head. 

“I wasn’t aware actually, but I’m not surprised though. He’s probably more powerful than you and I can even grasp, the boss wouldn’t be interested otherwise. “

The flippancy in Moran's tone irritated John. He usually wasn't kept in the dark too much, he always recieved enough information to know how to deal with a situation, but this was beginning to get out of his comfort zone. What exactly was the extent of Mycroft Holmes power?

“So I am not allowed to know more than that? Even if it would benefit my mission?”

“This is what has been decided, I can’t give you more. Heck, I don’t even know more! We are the middle men in this, John, it’s all between Holmes and the boss in the end.”

“But there is so much more than what I am able to see in this situation! Like Mycroft's control issues for example. I get the distinct feeling that there is something more than just normal protectiveness going on between them. I understand that a person would worry about a sibling who’s been a junkie a huge part of his life and who also seems so determined to pick up his bad habits as soon as given the opportunity. But tracking your own brother with the help of the public surveillance system, have people follow him, the house arrest, it’s all a bit too much. And if there is something more to the picture than what you have given me in the file, I will need to know what that is.”

Moran shook his head dismissively, he was not going to yield. 

“You have all the facts you need. All you really need to focus on is forming that relationship with Sherlock so you can get access to Mycroft. Whatever else they are dealing with in their strange and twisted family constellation is of no concern to you and of no interest to anyone else either, it’s their problem. Or mostly Sherlock’s I would guess, as he is the one being kept under control. Maybe he shouldn't have been such a bad boy in the first place.”

With that Moran left, asking for an update after the meeting on Friday, leaving John alone with his anger and confusion. 

As he went to bed that evening, he felt a tinge of unease that he usually didn’t feel when doing his job. 

Many things were uncomfortable and morally ambiguous regarding what he did for a living, but he usually never dwelled on them. 

So far, nothing bad had really happened, quite the contrary, he had managed to make progress quicker than anticipated and he even had a new meeting booked with his target, nothing should actually worry him or be the cause for this troubled feeling inside him. 

And yet something did bother him. 

There was something in the way Mycroft’s face had looked when he had grabbed Sherlock’s arm after the concert. It had been clear anger and that wasn’t actually surprising, his brother had disappeared without a word and obviously Mycroft would suspect a relapse considering his history, so the anger was to be expected and John would probably feel the same way if he had bothered to still care about Harry’s alcoholism the way Mycroft Holmes cared about Sherlock’s drug abuse. 

But it had not only been anger on display in that face, there had been something else, something John was unable to figure out but which caused his stomach to churn with unease. 

As John finally fell asleep it was with the vivid image of Mycroft Holmes hovering behind his brother as they went inside the concert hall at the beginning of the evening and then of his face as he grabbed his younger brother’s arm firmly afterwards. 

When John woke early the next morning, it felt like he hadn’t truly slept at all and the fact that he was supposed to meet with Sherlock in a couple of hours did nothing to ease the worry that was beginning to take hold inside of him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet up as decided, but as expected with Sherlock, things take a surprising turn.

John ended up waiting for almost fifteen minutes until Sherlock finally emerged, nonchalantly stepping out of S:t Peter’s Church at 59 Elgin Avenue, dressed in a large coat despite it being a sunny afternoon. Beneath it he was nicely dressed in more or less what he had been wearing to the concert the other night, just in different colours, so they were not actually the same garments.  
The top buttons were undone just like last time but as if compensating for the skin he was showing, the collar of the coat was pulled up, making him cast a very dashing silhouette. John felt strangely underdressed despite not usually caring about sartorial choices, opting more for comfort than fashion. 

Trying to steer his attention away from Sherlock’s appearance he broke eye contact and gave the building a once-over despite having gotten a good look at it while waiting.

“So, what’s this place?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Indulge me then,” John insisted. 

Sherlock sighed.

“It’s Narcotics Anonymous. This is me being not so anonymous telling you about it.”

This was the moment John would have to use all of his acting skills, meagre as they were, to not let on that he already knew that Sherlock was a former drug addict, the former part not being carved in stone considering how many times he had relapsed. 

Instead of trying to focus on a surprised facial expression or something commiserating he went for the neutral look people used when not wanting to face some uncomfortable truth. It was perhaps a bit condescending, considering that he was supposed to form a bond strong enough to let him get closer access to Mycroft, but it was better than being called out for already knowing this particular fact about Sherlock.

To his relief Sherlock seemed to go for indifference himself, as if he had pronounced that the building he had just exited was simply a chip shop or something equally mundane, not really even looking at John as he said it. Sherlock didn’t seem like the type of person who became easily embarrassed, so maybe he was just tired of talking about his drug habit, he had probably had his fair share on that topic to last a lifetime.  
Too bad it didn’t encourage him to keep clean.

John let his eyes move over the church building once again, so non-descript looking it really suited its purpose of harbouring those looking for anonymity. 

“Not to pry or anything, but I’m guessing there’s a reason for you to be here? Do you have an appointment or…?”

“Like I told you last night, I‘m willing to skip it. I just have one thing to take care of first.”

Without further explanation he strode away down the street towards a silver-grey car parked further away from the church entrance. Once next to it he leaned against the side of the driver’s seat and waited for the woman inside to pull the window down.  
Without actually bothering to acknowledge her presence more than that, Sherlock nonchalantly crossed his arms over his chest, making himself look more in charge of the situation and calmly informed her of something, with a nod in John’s direction. 

As he was still standing by the church entrance John couldn’t actually make out the exact words and he wondered if he should perhaps step up and join the conversation if Sherlock was making references to him. But then he decided to stay put. Sherlock hadn’t asked for him to follow, perhaps it was better to not know what was being said.

He could see the woman in the car looking at him now and he made a small nod to acknowledge her but stayed put while Sherlock continued to speak for a minute longer, then all of suddenly swivelling away from the car and walking back to John, the driver of the car now dismissed.  
The woman practically glared death threats at his receding back and then turned her eyes to stare at John as well, not changing her sour demeanour into something more neutral.

John nodded in her direction as Sherlock finally reached him.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“Difficult to pick just one label for her. Babysitter, secret service agent, minion, the occupant of the inside of my brother’s pocket? Not too much difference in the end.” 

“And why is she giving us the equivalent of a death glare?”

Sherlock sniffed and pulled his coat closer around his frame before heading off in the opposite direction of the parked car, clearly expecting John to follow without feeling the need to tell him to do so.

“If I worked for my brother, I would feel the constant urge to kill someone as well, myself most likely. He brings out the worst in people.”

John though about Mycroft Holmes's imperious face in the picture he had been shown by Moran and then the expression when he had grabbed Sherlock’s arm the other night. Maybe he had a habit of not only bringing out the worst in others but in himself as well? 

Or was Sherlock the reason behind everyone behaving so strangely hostile? That theory couldn’t be dismissed either. 

“What did you tell her exactly?” he asked while trying to keep up with Sherlock whose impossibly long legs made him strode off in too much of a hurry for John’s liking.

“That I had been handed a sponsor and that you were taking me out for a coffee and a talk so we would have a chance to get to know each other better.”

“So why the death glare then? Wouldn’t that be considered good news?”

“Because she knows me. There is no way I would sit down for a talk and a coffee with anyone, least of all someone who would want to talk to me about “problems”. Don’t worry, we’re not going to do that by the way. My real sponsor is at this moment still inside the church, waiting for me to get back from the men’s room. It’s going to be quite the wait for him, I’m afraid. “

John stifled the laugh threatening to bubble out of him. With the woman in the car still watching their movements it didn’t feel appropriate to express any obvious signs of joy right now. 

“Won’t this get you into trouble? It’s bound to get out sooner or later that you skipped the meeting.”

“Probably. But it’s not the first time and it will surely not be the last either. If they keep insisting that I go to these inane meetings they better vamp up the entertainment value, I can’t stand to sit through another confessional from an idiot who pictures him or herself ready to turn a new leaf in life just because someone forced them to do so. No one in there is capable of taking that step right now, believe me, I spent the previous meetings deducing them all.”

This time John actually did let out a small laugh.

“That brain of yours never rests, does it?”

Sherlock turned to look at John, really look at him for the first time today. 

“No. No, it doesn’t.”

John had meant it as a joke but there was something almost a little sad in Sherlock’s voice as he answered. But apparently not sad enough to slow him down, because he quickly was off again and John found it difficult to keep up, despite almost running now.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea? What if Sherlock decided to run off? Maybe there was a reason for Mycroft’s extensive surveillance? 

Was John really willing to be partly responsible for Sherlock succumbing to old habits again? Logically speaking he shouldn’t care, but if nothing else, the doctor in him didn’t like that idea at all.

Was this what Harry’s ex-girlfriends had occasionally experienced with her? John always did wonder how everyone always allowed his sister to get away with her shenanigans while he so clearly saw her intentions from miles away. No one could deceive like an addict, he knew that, in the end it was always about their needs and everyone else were either in on the ride or dismissed as being of no use. 

He knew too little about Sherlock to know if he was being taken along as part of a hidden scheme or if Sherlock simply wanted to get out of the house and experience something new. Mycroft would certainly be willing to inform John if he would ever get the chance. 

Well, if Mycroft eventually did invite John to his home, or his office or even to that stuffy club for solitaries, just so he could tell John off for encouraging his brother’s reckless behaviour, John would willingly take it, if it meant that he got closer to achieving his mission.  
And, as Moran had said, if worse came to worse, John could actually use Sherlock’s weakness to exploit what that truly meant to Mycroft and achieve his goal that way instead. Maybe that could also have the additional advantage of teaching Sherlock a lesson.  
John wasn’t prone to choosing the darker path if a better, less morally ambiguous one was available, but considering how rattled he was beginning to feel with this whole situation he would rather see it come to an end fairly soon than prolonging it just because of some honourable stance he might harbour deep down.  
Whatever principles he once had were now more or less disposed of or buried deep within.

“Where are we going?” 

He was now slightly out of breath, but Sherlock was showing no signs of slowing down. Like a panther he fluidly jumped over a fence to reach a backyard, while John muttered under his breath in annoyance. While fit, he was still much shorter than the other man and clearly not as accustomed to jumping and running about the way Sherlock surprisingly was. For someone so recently out of rehab he was in very good shape. The few times Harry had made it through a rehabilitation programme she had always come back a little heavier, on account of eating better but also more, while sober.  
John would have thought the same would apply to drug addicts as well but Sherlock was clearly both very slim, as well as trim. If he had been skinnier before rehab he must have looked like a corpse. 

“Well, to begin with, we are steering clear of the cameras again. That pitiful excuse of a surveillance agent wannabe in the car will surely stay conflicted for another ten minutes, but then she will surely make a call to her superior and tell exactly what I told her. There will be another ten minutes, if we’re lucky, where they churn this information around in their heads and then yet another call, this time to my brother. He unfortunately is a little quicker when it comes to making decisions, so conclusions will be drawn, calls be made, the first one to the person in charge of the NA meeting and after that, to every source of intelligence he has available who could aid him in tracking me down. The chase will be on, so to speak. If we manage to stay under the radar long enough we might actually pull this little excursion off though, without him being none the wiser. He will not like that scenario one bit of course. He was quite furious about last night by the way, mostly because he has no idea what I was up to. He hates not knowing.”

“Does he know you weren’t alone?”

Sherlock cast John a look over his shoulder.

“Worried he will track you down?”

_No, I’m actually counting on it_ , John thought, but outwardly he shook his head.

Another ten minutes of keeping out of sight from CCTV cameras John no longer had any idea where they were and even less so about the reason for Sherlock dragging him across town like this. There seemed to be no point to this excursion more than to not be attending the NA meeting, and possibly to aggravate Sherlock’s brother even further. 

John was beginning to feel a bit nettled as well. He had the distinct feeling he was suddenly being played for a fool, used only as tool in a game he had no insight to and he didn’t like it.

He was so annoyed by the situation that he didn’t notice that Sherlock had lead them to a very run-down, isolated area, where a tunnel was leading a path across the river, not a person in sight, nor any cameras.

He became aware of it only when Sherlock suddenly stopped, as abruptly as he had started sprinting twenty minutes ago just to climb a fence, using the speed to manage the jump by grabbing the highest part of the fence so he could haul himself up and then reach down to grab John’s hand so he could make it over as well.  
Now the abruptness of the stop made John involuntarily crash into Sherlock’s back and with a curse he backed away while flailing his arms to regain balance.  
Sherlock seemed unperturbed about it all, he simply remained standing where he was, facing the tunnel ahead.

“What’s going on? Why have we stopped?” John couldn’t help but turn his voice up a bit, annoyed at being kept in the dark about where they were headed. 

Ignoring that sign completely, Sherlock calmly asked:

“Do you know what this place is?”

Confused John looked to see if he could spot something he would recognise.

“No?”

“Don’t you read the papers?”

John frowned. 

He did usually read the paper as part of his morning routine when he had the time to do so, a luxury he hadn’t been able to afford while in the army, and as he had plenty of time to kill before meeting Sherlock today he had indeed indulged in a plate of crispy bacon, two eggs on toast and The Guardian, as The Independent had, while he'd been abroad, turned into a digital newspaper only and he enjoyed having an actual paper edition to leaf through while enjoying his breakfast.  
Maybe he had something in common with Mycroft Holmes in that regard, as he remembered Moran’s comment about sitting in the Diogenes reading news in the original paper form. Although John was fairly sure Mycroft didn’t read The Guardian. 

Sherlock sighed impatiently.

“It’s a pretty straight forward question, not the Riemann’s hypothesis in mathematics. Do you read the papers or not?”

“Yes, I did read the paper this morning actually. But that still doesn’t tell me what this is or where we are.”

Sherlock pointed at the tunnel and John shifted his eyes past the other man to look in that direction.

“On the other side there is a crime scene investigation in the works, as we speak. Well, I use the word _work_ in the loosest sense possible, I have no doubt that the police are bumbling about the place in their usual incompetent fashion, anything else would be truly astonishing.”

John squinted, as if by doing so he would see the scene Sherlock was presenting, but all he saw was the dark tunnel and the opening on the other side. 

Even more confused at the direction this afternoon had taken, he turned his eyes once again towards Sherlock, questions brimming in them. 

Not returning the look, Sherlock continued to explain.

“Do you remember reading about a man who was found in a burnt-out car two nights ago? A crime thought to be gang related, drugs found in the glove compartment, surprisingly preserved with the bag intact despite the fire?”

John rummaged through his memory, looking for that particularly story. He had a niggling remembrance of seeing an article with this information in it but despite being an avid reader he hadn’t paid too much attention to this particular news article. Like Sherlock said, gang related crime had been hinted and he wasn’t especially interested in those, usually they were a waste of both time and people’s lives. 

“I guess…” he began, more to please Sherlock than actually remembering too much about the article. “What of it?”

“What if I told you that no gang whatsoever had anything to do with his death?”

John frowned, even more confused now.

What was this truly about? 

He knew Sherlock was different, strange was too broad a word to describe him, unique more suitable, but not being a fully successful description either, odd perhaps coming the closest.

To put it mildly, he wasn’t at all what John had expected and that had been established already two nights ago.  
But the more time John spent with him, the more out of his depth did he feel.  
At first it had been easy, “a go with the flow”- sort of feeling, a moment shared on a roof top while watching London in a dusky evening light, it could even have been romantic if circumstances had been different, but since then things had become more outlandish, straight out sinister even. 

The shadow of Mycroft Holmes threatened everything they did, the constant avoidance of the surveillance cameras, lying to that female agent in the car, skipping a NA meeting by pretending that John was Sherlock’s sponsor, while the need to attend that meeting was most likely a stipulation for Sherlock’s continued freedom.  
Then there had been Moran’s reluctance to reveal more information about his target except for the very meagre file John had received on Sherlock, a file that clearly had a few missing pieces if you considered the person Sherlock was showcasing at the moment.  
And now they were apparently, after an extensive run through London’s backstreets, a hundred metres away from a crime scene John had no idea of why it was of any significance to Sherlock. To top it off, Sherlock claimed to know something about this crime that opposed the theory the police had come up with. A crime involving a burnt-up corpse, a ruined car and a bag of narcotics.  
Bizarre didn’t even begin to describe this situation. 

“Meaning?” John finally said, frustrated with feeling like he had no control over the situation any longer. 

“That the man did not die in that car two nights ago. He was killed somewhere else, then placed in the car along with the bag of drugs before the car was put on fire. The damage to the body was too extensive if you consider the remains of the car and that bag was meant to be found, to throw the police off scent. It was evident, even just by looking at the picture of the car in the paper.”

“What are you talking about? How can you possibly know any of this? Why has this anything to do with you?”

As if feeling affronted by being questioned, Sherlock looked at him now, the gaze suddenly razor-sharp. John felt like he was being x-rayed and reacted the way he usually did when feeling uncomfortable and cornered, despite not knowing exactly why he felt that way, angrily crossing his arms over his chest and planting his feet firmly in the ground in front of Sherlock. Better to stare opposition straight in the eye than backing away.

“Why wouldn’t I know any of it? I have eyes, don't I? And I choose to use them, unlike others,” Sherlock said in a stiff tone, his gaze still penetrating John sharply. “You don’t know anything about me. We met just the other night, quite _randomly_ , I might add. “

Alarm bells were beginning to ring in the back of John’s head now. Had Sherlock perhaps started to suspect that there was something fishy about him? Not that he had really revealed much, hardly anything at all, not even a name, but Sherlock had those deductive skills after all. Maybe he had figured it all out, or if not all, at least enough to make him suspicious of John’s intentions.

He had to revert this sudden tone between them, fix the situation somehow. Sherlock was by far his biggest asset in gaining access to Mycroft, John couldn’t fail before he had even been given a fair chance. 

He opened his mouth to say something placating, but as if by a snap of his fingers, the penetrating gaze in Sherlock’s eyes suddenly died and he turned his back to John, once again facing the tunnel. ¨

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone neutral now and John felt that uneasy clench of his stomach he had felt last night, while trying to get some sleep. That feeling of something being wrong but unable to see exactly what.

“What does matter, is that I need is a diversion,” Sherlock continued, and John blinked, unable to know what to say to that. This what not at all what he had expected. 

“The car will still be in place, even if the body won’t be. I would like to get a look at it, and that’s where you come in.” 

“Me? What do you mean?” John exclaimed.

Sherlock started walking towards the tunnel, once again simply expecting John to follow, the dark coat billowing behind him like some strange bird. There was a hint of temptation not to actually do as Sherlock demanded this time, but grudgingly John finally did cave in and ran after him.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Oh, nothing dangerous. Just pretend to be a journalist, talk to the officer in charge or the one closest to the car so I can get a better look at it. Be the most simpleminded dimwit you could possibly be while asking him things about the scene. I‘ll pretend to be your photographer. Give me your phone.”

“What? No!”

Instinctively John put his hand over the front pocket of his jacket where he kept his phone, as if that gesture alone could prevent anyone from getting to it and immediately Sherlock smirked, raising one of his eyebrows. He looked like the cat who just got the cream. Damn.

John wasn’t willingly lending out his phone, even if nothing truly incriminating was on it. Moran’s number was safely filed under **Seb’s Pizza** and the memory stick with the file on Sherlock was already destroyed, so technically he had nothing to worry about. But this was his private phone. Harry was in there, as well as his own contact information along with a few but precious pictures he had saved from his army days. 

Caring nothing for privacy Sherlock imperiously extended one of his delicate hands in a fluid motion.

“Don’t worry, it’s all for pretend. Just hand it over. I promise not to take a sneak peak at your browsing history or whatever incriminating photo you have in there. I'm not interested in anything like that.”

John was still not willing to do so.

“What if the police confiscate it? It might not be allowed to take pictures?”

“And how do you think a picture of the crime scene ended up in the papers in the first place? Now hand over the phone.”

“Would it hurt you to ask nicely?” John muttered while reluctantly retrieving his phone from his pocket, weighing it in his hand instead of handing it over, still unsure if it was a good idea to do this.

“I _never_ ask, nicely or otherwise,” Sherlock replied smoothly while snaking his hand into John’s, extracting the phone from his stubborn grip. 

And with that he was off, leaving John to stare after his retreating back in with a sense of uneasiness, before jolting into action and hurrying to catch up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft recieves the news that his brother is AWOL once again.  
> Meanwhile John comes to a disturbing conclusion about himself in regards to Sherlock.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his fingers intertwined over his stomach and his eyes mere slits as he contemplated the screen in front of him. He had arrived at his office early this morning on account of an unusual amount of work but also because he needed to get out of the house, a notion disturbing to him, as he normally enjoyed the atmosphere of his home in Holland Park.

Ever since Sherlock had arrived from his latest stint in rehab Mycroft had enjoyed it even further, relishing in the fact that his brother was once again back under his roof. As always, that experience was never purely a bliss, the stubbornness in his younger brother had not diminished despite the years passing and Mycroft had experienced both bouts of rebellion and full-blown explosions of anger from Sherlock in the beginning. 

It was to be expected; it was what they did after all.  
Their relationship, while occasionally affectionate, was more often than not, reminiscent of navigating a mine field, every misstep causing an explosion of catastrophic proportions or even worse, those mushroom clouds of nuclear magnitudes leaking venomous fumes so acerbic to inhale it drove both Mycroft and Sherlock to secretly despair, despite being the ones who caused it themselves. 

There were many issues to address between them if they ever would have made the effort to do so, ranging from Mycroft’s obsessive need for control, to Sherlock’s incessant need to rebel. There was also Mycroft’s deeply rooted jealousy and possessiveness, a weakness he was well aware of, but despite that knowledge, in no way able to control, and then there was of course Sherlock’s liability to both deceive, trick and lie to get his way, mostly when drugs were concerned, but sometimes also regarding other topics, such as his need for more freedom and the ability to move about unsupervised, a wish Mycroft had much difficulty granting him, for very good reasons. 

The drugs were a huge part of it, naturally, but there had also been that wretched affair with Victor Trevor, not only once, but, to make matters worse, twice conducted, and in Mycroft’s opinion it had done more damage than any chemical solution could ever have generated.

Well, that situation had been dealt with in the end. But at a considerable cost unfortunately.  
Sherlock had made his most serious effort to escape his brother’s clutches after the second time Mycroft intervened. The first time had blessedly only involved Sherlock relapsing into drug abuse, if there was such a thing as a drug abuse being a blessed thing. 

For Mycroft it had worked in his favour as he had swooped in and picked up the broken pieces of his little brother’s life, put him in rehab and cured him enough so he was able to return to school three months later, alone once more but much safer for it, as far as Mycroft was concerned.

That Victor Trevor would be foolish enough to try his chances with Sherlock again a few years later had caught Mycroft off guard, and Sherlock’s willingness to let it happen had hurt him profoundly.  
It had happened during one of their extended fighting periods and Mycroft had not found out about this new development until it was too late and Sherlock had safely secured himself a spot in the comforting arms of a man Mycroft detested with every fibre of his body and therefore took much pleasure in destroying not even a year later, so thoroughly that the Trevor boy would never again rise from the ashes of his pulverized existence. 

Sherlock unfortunately had avenged Mycroft’s actions by leaving the country for a long period of time straight after, forcing Mycroft to put all his resources into finding him again and dragging him back home under huge duress. Sherlock had been kicking and screaming at first, but eventually he’d come to accepting his fate and succumbing to Mycroft’s will once more. 

That period of time, both with Sherlock living and playing house together with Victor, but also the stressful aftermath, when Mycroft had no idea where his brother was and in futile attempts tried to track him down without success, had been the worst of his life and not an experience he ever wished to endure a second time. Therefor the screws were much tighter around his brother since the day Mycroft finally found him again and brought him back home. 

Things had not exactly improved afterwards, they still had their issues and the tension between them was more palpable these days, compared to before the Trevor incident, but there were still instances when they could enjoy each other’s company, even if those instances were fewer now and far between. 

That particular episode had made Sherlock more cunning and prone to perform trickery, being much more difficult to control and forcing Mycroft to harden his stance as time went by.  
Sometimes Mycroft experienced the feeling of being trapped in a torturous wheel that just kept spinning without any availability to get off or at least slow down, and it was frankly exhausting, because however much he loved his brother and despite the weakness of feelings affecting his decisions, Mycroft was at heart a creature of rationality, much more so than Sherlock, and deep down he knew he had just as big a part in forcing that wheel to continue spinning, but at the same time fully incapable of walking away. 

When Sherlock had returned to Mycroft’s house this time around, things had slotted into place in their usual fashion fairly quickly. It was always a bit more difficult for Sherlock to adjust, more so the more often he experienced the return of Mycroft’s control.  
There was the usual teeth grinding and sulking involved, followed by a well-aimed slap of his cheek, Sherlock’s affronted face followed by succumbing to their usual game of crime and punishment in the bedroom, this particular time with the addition of Mycroft’s belt and an insolent little brother who never knew how to say _please_ or _thank you_ or show even the smallest morsel of gratitude for everything Mycroft did for him.  
And so they continued for the better part of the first month and a half. 

Then things had really begun to get out of hand and the icing on the cake had been the other evening when Sherlock had poked and prodded at Mycroft’s resolve all afternoon before going to that bloody concert Mycroft had booked tickets to, months in advance, while Sherlock was still recuperating in rehab, resulting in them both being in a foul mood when finally arriving at Cadogan Hall. 

To make matters worse, Sherlock had made a run for it, or as he called it, _taken a little breather_ , even before the first act had finished and the whole evening had been ruined for Mycroft. He tolerated a little disobedience from his brother, it helped them in their little game of hurt and repent, although Sherlock frankly never repented, at least not verbally.  
But this had been too much, and the anger Mycroft had felt upon Sherlock’s return had not been easily reduced, even causing him to make a scene outside the concert hall afterwards. 

The ride home had been fraught with hurled insults and vicious glares and Sherlock had opted to forego sleep that night by planting himself in front of the fireplace to sulk while Mycroft in anger retreated to his own bedroom, slamming the door behind with such force it resonated through the whole house. 

Things had been frosty ever since and Mycroft had therefore felt the need to get out of the house to clear his head from this vicious situation for a while, or else he feared he would feel the urge to trash his brother’s hide so thoroughly with a belt, as punishment for his insolence, that Sherlock wouldn't be able to sit down for weeks. 

He had buried himself in work until lunch, steering clear of as many people as possible as per usual, conducting most tasks with the help of e-mails and messages through his PA.  
Thoughts of his brother had been put on the back burner and successfully so, during the morning hours. But as the time had approached two o’clock in the afternoon and his sub-consciousness helpfully reminded him of his brother’s meeting with the NA, Sherlock was once again taking precedence over his thoughts.

Punishing himself for that transgression he forewent the offered tray of tea with the additional piece of Madeira Cake his PA brought him, before leaving him to his own devises, staring at his computer, knowing better than trying to disturb him. 

Unfortunately she had no choice but to do so minutes later as her boss’s phone, left in her capable hands after Mycroft had joined a Skype meeting after lunch, not wishing to be disturbed and had not yet been returned to its rightful owner, started to ring in the tone that indicated that it was the team assigned to supervise the movements of the younger Holmes brother. 

Over the years she had learned that if there was one thing truly capable of shaking the impenetrable core of the Ice man, it was to do with Sherlock Holmes, the insolent junkie brat who seemed uncapable of straightening out his life and was the bane of her employer’s life.  
In the beginning of her career she had though it impossible for anything to cause even so much as a ripple on that impeccable surface of the most cold-hearted, but at the same time fiercely intelligent man, feared as much as admired by the people surrounding him.  
That was before she had experienced the tsunami that was his younger brother and the clashes between them she had since witnessed, had made her re-evaluate that first impression, sometimes fearing that one day one brother would be the cause for the other’s demise, surmising for it to likely be Mycroft killing Sherlock in a fit of uncontrolled rage. 

Mycroft paid her no attention as she entered, his phone in her hand. He was deeply immersed in his own thoughts and not willingly disturbed from those, but her insistent voice still managed to break through his thought process with that tone tinted with concern she always adopted for when there was some sort of trouble ahead on the horizon. 

Sighing, he untangled his hands from each other and leaned forward to give her his full attention, knowing she would hardly disturb him if not absolutely necessary. 

“Sir, I’m sorry to trouble you. But it’s Mr Parker calling. He insists that he needs a word with you.”

Mycroft could feel the beginnings of a headache as he reached for the phone while waving her away.

“Yes?” he said curtly into the phone as soon as the door behind his PA had closed.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Holmes, but Miss Bunton called just know, and…well…” the nervous voice of Parker, for the time being in charge of Sherlock’s surveillance, but if being the reason for any mishaps, soon to be unemployed and a persona non grata for all eternity in the line of business he was occupying, depending on what this very insistent information was all about.

“Quickly please, Mr Parker.”

“Yes, yes of course, Sir. Well, ahem, the target, _did_ go to his intended meeting at 59 Elgin Avenue without much fuss. But then he reappeared about fifteen minutes later outside the building, where he approached a man who had been waiting for him by the entrance. Until approached by the target we… well, miss Bunton that is, had no idea the man was of any significance but simply figured him to be just another visitor to the church, so she paid him no particular attention. But after a short exchange of words, the target approached Miss Bunton’s car and informed her that the other man was a sponsor the target had been assigned and that they were going to go for a coffee and a… I quote: “a talk, so as to get the chance to get to know each other.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, already sensing where this was heading. 

“And now it turns out that man isn’t his sponsor, I gather?” 

“We don’t know yet, Sir. We have no real reason to question the story, but at the same time, Miss Bunton said she sensed something felt a little off about the whole thing. She decided to call me and I in turn decided to call you to inform about this development. It’s not necessarily anything worse than a hunch, but better to inform you of the situation, Sir.”

“And how long ago was this?”

The voice on the other end of the phone went quiet for a few seconds and this was when Mycroft started plotting the future prospects of Parker as no longer occupying a position in Mycroft’s extensive surveillance team or any such prominent employment elsewhere. If he lied now, Mycroft would make it happen.

“Ahem…, it was approximately half an hour ago, Sir.”

“And what, If I may ask, took you this long to do anything about the situation?” Mycroft calmly asked, displaying none of the rising anger he was feeling at the moment.

“Well, like I said, Miss Bunton just had a hunch and seeing as there _is_ actually a sponsor programme attached to the NA meetings it could just as plausibly have been true. And we might not actually know if there is more to this hunch than meets the eye. But we still decided it would be wise to call you, Sir.”

“Stay put,” Mycroft simply said, ending the connection and scrolling down to find the number to the manager in charge of the NA meetings at S:t Peter’s Church.  
A quick call confirmed what Mycroft had suspected ever since hearing the insufferable idiot Parker proclaiming that Sherlock would have agreed to go for a coffee and _a talk_ with a stranger, however much that stranger went under the title of a sponsor.  
That was simply not feasible. 

Sherlock had indeed been handed a sponsor, an elderly man by the unsatisfying name of Zeb, but had shortly after having been told this news, excused himself to go to the men’s room and had not returned since. A check-up ten minutes later had confirmed that Sherlock was no longer in the building.

Foregoing any manners now, on account of his rising stress levels and anger, Mycroft ended the call by simply hanging up and then redialling Parker. 

“Seems Miss Bunton’s hunch was accurate. My brother has left with a man no one seems to have any idea of who he is and has also had the advantage of a head start of over 30 minutes if your estimation is correct. Do you know what a recovering drug addict let loose with a stranger in a city like London can get up to in that amount of time, Mr Parker?”

On the other end Parker started trying to form a coherent sentence but failing miserably.

“No guesses? I’ll suppose we will have to see for ourselves then. Find him _immediately_ , Mr Parker. “

With Parker still trying to make his assurances in a weak, placated voice, Mycroft hung up.

 

Meanwhile, in a different part of town, John was doing his outmost to impersonate a journalist bullying his way onto a crime scene while Sherlock circumvented the police officer who was trying to wave John away, threatening to forcibly remove him if he didn’t back off.

John could see Sherlock bending to the ground next to the burnt-out car, pretending to snap pictures with the borrowed phone before trying to reach inside the car.

“Hey, get away from there!”

Both the police officer busy dealing with John, as well a technician with a sourly expression, turned their heads, first in the direction of the police officer who had yelled in the first place, and then to see who he was yelling at. John grimaced and wondered if he should interfere before Sherlock got them both in trouble, an afternoon in a police station wasn’t exactly a compelling thought. But it turned out that the police officer who had been dealing with him just a second ago decided to take matters into his own hands.

“All right, lads, take your little camera phone and get the hell out of here. This is a crime scene and contaminating it is actually a breach of the law.”

At first Sherlock did not seem to be listening as he still was halfway inside the car, but when the policeman actually walked up to him to tap him on the back, he reacted.

“You should keep that thought in mind yourselves, this crime scene looks like it’s been invaded by a pack of wolves,” Sherlock sniffed, but still backed away from the car rather than risk being touched again by the now affronted police officer. 

“Oi! Scram or I’ll charge you for contempt of an officer.”

Sherlock snorted sarcastically.

“Pft, this isn’t The United States. You would think the Metropolitan Police would know what goes under British law, but I guess that would be hoping for miracles.”

With that Sherlock strode off, John quickly following suit.

As they headed back through the tunnel, John couldn’t help but look back at the police officers still watching them leave, with anger in their eyes. 

“Well, I don’t know what you hoped to accomplish by that, but hopefully you got what you wanted, because I’m not doing that ever again. Give me my phone back.”

Sherlock tossed the phone to him without comment.

Despite not having seen Sherlock do more to it than pretending to snap some pictures, John felt the need to take a closer look at the phone before feeling satisfied that things were as it should. While putting it back inside his pocket he felt the surge of adrenaline dissipate, to be replaced by giddy relief. 

Despite doing what he did for a living, this had actually caused him to feel a rush of nervous excitement that he wasn’t normally accustomed to feeling.  
Sherlock Holmes was clearly insane if this was what he got up to in his spare time. But while thinking that, John couldn’t help but add that it had also been thoroughly enjoyable. Even if he didn’t understand what it was Sherlock had been trying to accomplish. 

As they had walked a while in silence, John couldn’t help but say something.

“Look, I am not entirely sure you aren’t a complete nutter, evidence seems to suggest it, but with that being said, I would like to say that I did enjoy myself this afternoon. It was very…ahem, unexpected and I still don’t know what all that was good for, but if you ever need an accomplice who can help you sneak inside a crime scene again, I’m up for it.”

Sherlock snorted but there was thinly concealed laugh in it as well.

“I thought you said, less than ten minutes ago, you wouldn’t be doing this ever again.”

“You must have misheard me,” John chuckled and with that he extended his hand. “I’m John by the way.”

Sherlock looked down at his hand, hesitant, but then extended his as well, grabbing John’s in a firm grip.

“Sherlock.”

 _I know_ , John thought, with a smile on his lips, but didn’t say anything more.

After a while he noticed how Sherlock, instead of going the old and very physically straining way back, headed out on one of the bigger roads. John immediately grabbed him by the arm.

“Hey, what are you doing? Cameras, remember?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. My brother will surely have heard that I went AWOL. This way we won’t have to walk all the way back to Elgin Avenue, I’ll give him seven minutes to find us once we hit the main road.”

“Will he actually come himself?”

The inside of John started to pulsate with a hint of anticipation. It didn’t necessarily mean anything if Mycroft Holmes showed up himself to collect his wayward brother, except perhaps that John would be privy to some sort of brotherly exchange of unpleasantries, perhaps risking getting a reprimand himself, but otherwise thoroughly ignored.  
But still, it would mean first contact.  
If John proved to be a close enough acquaintance to Sherlock, it might actually open up the door to a more personal encounter. Surely the overprotective Mycroft Holmes would be interested in getting to know exactly who his precious little brother was spending his time with? 

Sherlock turned to give him a quick assessing glance.

“Does that worry you?”

John did his best to supress whatever his thoughts were providing him with in regard to wishful thinking and possible scenarios, a part of him already thought of ways to gain access to Mycroft’s work room, if ever given the chance to enter the house. 

Another part of his mind did something he even more stubbornly tried to supress, as it was most certainly not convenient, and he had long ago left those kinds of complications behind him and settled for a more practical solution to his baser needs. 

He wasn’t completely sure exactly when it had happened, in reality it might have been as early as the first night, that roof top scene had every element for romantic entanglements in it after all, but a sudden interest in Sherlock beyond being a means to an end had unexpectedly begun creeping its way into his subconscious and was now doing its best to take root, despite his efforts to prevent it.

It was highly inconvenient.

Sure, Sherlock had been impressive the other night, with his deduction thing and the suave look, a look he seemed to culture on a daily basis if today was any indication. He was certainly a bit waspish, that tongue gave a trashing worthy of any drama queen, and he seemed highly unreliable, sneaking around, telling lies and when considering his history, he was not a person you could trust with anything. He was a former drug addict after all, with everything that entailed, and boy did John know a lot about former addicts.  
Sherlock was someone who, despite his age, had not yet figured out anything regarding life and instead had chaos follow him around like a stubborn pet. No wonder that brother of his tried keeping him on a leash. 

But despite all of that, there was something alluring and very tempting about him. Like an exotic dish at the local restaurant you knew you shouldn’t be trying on, because it would cause you all sorts of discomfort afterwards and would with certainty be difficult to digest, probably resulting in acid reflux, belly ache, vomiting and diarrhoea all at once.  
Simply put, a very bad idea. And yet, that dish just looked so yummy and delectable. 

But if there was something John Watson prided himself with, it was that temptation was a weakness he seldom indulged in anymore, hadn’t done for a few years now. Basic needs of the sexual variety was occasionally taken care of by going out and getting laid, a thing to be over with before morning come. Anything more than that was a no as far as he was concerned.  
That department had been closed ever since he had returned from the army, the door tightly sealed and firmly shut closed. 

And he certainly wasn’t going to open it up for the sake of a target he was shamelessly going to use, perhaps even in a worse way than he was doing right now, if things didn’t go accordingly. He had no illusions about stringing Sherlock along with a pretend bond of camaraderie that he was cruelly going to exploit to get to his powerful brother. That was what the mission was all about after all, there had never been any confusion about that outcome and did he feel sorry about it? No.

So beginning to involve something akin to feelings into the plan, it could simply not happen and with that final thought on the subject he trampled down whatever was beginning to bud inside of him regarding Sherlock Holmes and attraction, grinding it viciously under his foot and concentrated once more on the task at hand, getting to Mycroft.

As they had put yet more distance behind them and the crime scene, now walking up one of the main roads, John finally answered Sherlock’s question.

“No, it doesn’t worry me if he comes. I was just surprised he would find the time to follow you around like this. Doesn’t he have a job?”

Sherlock turned to look at John with one of his eyebrows raised in question.

“Don’t _you_?” 

“I’m unemployed at the moment.”

He had rehearsed it. He knew the questions would come eventually, he had a whole story to work with if necessary, but surprisingly Sherlock hadn’t asked him anything, not even his name until being offered it. Maybe he wasn’t interested or maybe, which was much more worrying, he had deduced what he wanted to know.  
There were sometimes those moments when John almost suspected that Sherlock had deduced at least something, more than what he had said that night at the concert.  
But could you really deduce an occupation even John himself had difficulty describing, something that didn't even have an appropriate title?  
As long as Sherlock hadn’t called him out on it, ignorance was a bless. 

Sherlock looked like he was about to say something, a small frown having formed between his eyebrows, those full lips falling apart to make room for a huge intake of breath, as if readying himself for a stream of words about to come out, when a car suddenly pulled up next to them, so close to the curb that John felt the need to take a few steps back, so as not to get hit.

Sherlock raised his arm to catch a glimpse at his watch, tutting, before turning his attention back to the car where the rear window was now silently being pulled down. 

“Five minutes. That’s actually rather impressive, if it wouldn’t at the same time indicate you loitering around aimlessly in the streets in your obsessive search for lost siblings. John here, thinks you don’t have a job and a fairly accurate assumption that would be considering the amount of time you invest to other matters of a more private nature.”

A well-manicured hand followed by an arm in a dark beige fabric, most likely belonging to a nice bespoke suit if John would venture a guess, came out to leisurely rest on the edge of the window. The rest of the man was still shrouded in the shadows inside the car and therefor out of sight for John to get a closer look at.

“Well, we know better, don’t we Sherlock?” a voice offered from inside the car, with the lilt of public-school pronunciation spoken with a calmness that at the same time radiated pure ice, the vowels clipped to perfectly convey the condescension behind the words. 

“To be fair, he can’t have known that you so easily blur the lines between occupation and private life, especially when it comes to the frankly appalling use of state funding to conduct your private matters.” Sherlock said with a slight tone of disdain.

Mycroft tutted disapprovingly.

“Always such a barbed choice of tone with you, little brother.”

Sherlock stared at the man inside the car and assumingly that stare was returned even if John couldn’t be sure from where he was standing. It was tempting to take a few steps closer to get a good look at the powerful Mycroft Holmes inside the car, but John reluctantly refrained, waiting for a better opportunity.

It was Mycroft who finally broke the staring contest. 

“Acquired yourself a new acquaintance? Or is it a _friend_ perhaps?”

For a second Sherlock actually froze, John merely noticed on account of the proximity. But then he relaxed again, regaining his previous haughtiness, snorting in response. 

That didn’t deter Mycroft.

“May I be so bold as to require where the two of you met?”

When Sherlock didn’t answer John cleared his throat and offered an answer.

“It was a spur of the moment kind of a thing, quite incidental.”

“That’s a rather vague answer,” Mycroft said with a hint of disapproval. 

John thought about what Sherlock had said earlier regarding Mycroft not knowing everything and how it vexed him. He could see how that would derive some pleasure from the younger brother, Mycroft Holmes was certainly exuding that air of all-importance John had difficulty enduring.  
But before he had the chance to answer with a remark of his own Sherlock intervened.

“Stop bullying him, Mycroft.”

“I am doing no such thing, merely asking a perfectly relevant question.”

“How is it relevant to _you_ were we met? You don’t have to know everything, however much that idea displeases you.”

A mirthless laugh came from inside car.

“Oh, Sherlock. Would you really want me to count the number of reasons why it would be of importance to me to know where you met a man who, until now, I knew nothing about? Because I gladly would, you know. Maybe John would be interested as well?”

To John’s surprise this angered Sherlock to the extent where he rushed up to the car and banged his hands on the roof with a loud thud.

“Stop it, Mycroft! I’m here now, aren’t I? I even made it easy for you, making myself visible for your cameras to spot me. Just get on with what you came for and leave the rest alone!”

“No reason to get so volatile, dear brother. I am merely concerned, as always.”

“Yes, yes I know all about that _concern_ of yours.”

Mycroft’s hand disappeared inside the car just as the front door opened, the driver emerging, a large muscular man, more resembling a bodyguard than a chauffeur. Without a word he opened the rear door on the opposite side of where Mycroft was sitting.

Feeling a surge of panic John stepped up to Sherlock, reluctant to let him just drive off to be out of reach again. He couldn’t very well seek him out without revealing that he knew where he the Holmes brothers lived, so instead he went for a more overt approach, from the corner of his eye, noticing that Mycroft was looking at him more closely now.

“Sherlock, wait! You never told me how you knew all those things about the car and the body?”

Surprise flashed over Sherlock’s features for a second, then a small smile touched his lips.

“I’ll tell you next time.”

“But wait. We haven’t even…” John began, when Sherlock suddenly leaned forward, so close that John could actually feel the scent of the cologne he was wearing. With his mouth to John’s ear, the warm breath coming out in small puffs as he whispered, he sent shivers of unexpected pleasure down John’s spine as he listened to what Shrelock had to say. While doing so he could se Mycroft Holmes face in front of him from the still open car window, a mask of frozen animosity, most noticeable in the cold blue eyes that pierced John, the face’s rigid features and the pursed lips of disapproval.

“I’ll be in touch; I have your number.”

With that Sherlock straightened himself again and rounded the car to get to the where the driver was holding up the door for him. John turned his eyes away from him as soon as he had disappeared inside the vehicle, landing his gaze on Mycroft again. They stared at each other for a brief second, John still in bafflement, Mycroft with the glare of open hostility still in place, before rolling up the window and the car was set in motion. 

John remained where he was, looking after the retreating car for as long as he could see it, before beginning to head back to his own place so he could give his report to Moran. 

He wasn’t sure if the day’s developments had been good or not, considering his mission. But all he could think about as his feet thudded against the pavement, a small chill finding its way inside his open jacket, was the feel of Sherlock’s closeness as he had whispered in John’s ear and how his own body had reacted to that proximity. 

_Trample it down!_ He told himself while his brain replayed the words: _I’ll be in touch_ in Sherlock’s deep baritone voice.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft tries to get some answers from Sherlock.

Dinner in the Holmes household that evening was a strained affair.

Sherlock didn’t eat as usual, he claimed he had no intentions of following in Mycroft’s heavy footsteps and that the food cooked by his brother’s housekeeper wasn’t agreeing with him on account of the high calorific ingredients in every dish presented at the table.

Normally Mycroft could condone such childishness despite himself being the butt of those insults and his weight actually being something of a sore spot for him, if Sherlock chose to forego one of life’s greatest pleasures on account of an immature wish to insult, who was Mycroft to give him the attention he so obviously craved by taking offence? It was at least within the standard category of sibling jabs.

But tonight tension was running high already from the get-go, and at the sight of his brother picking away at the contents of his plate, Mycroft couldn’t help but snap at him to sit up straight and eat his bloody food like a normal adult.

Strangely, considering his brother being the master at having the last word in any conversation, Sherlock didn’t offer a snide remark in return but simply speared one of the potatoes with his fork and cut it into smaller pieces, still not eating it, but at least not simply moving everything around on the plate in an endless pattern that was slowly driving Mycroft to new and unexplored heights of annoyance. 

Ever since their very first kiss, the result of a long and intricate game between them, triggered by supressed feelings from both parties but perhaps mostly egged on by Sherlock’s tenacious wish to win whereas Mycroft had actually been more hesitant to breach the line of intimacy, they had shared this existence of pull and tug, both initially enjoying it, especially in the early days, but at the same time probably regretting ever ending up in this situation, unable to dispose of their given roles in the scenario of their own making. 

Pretty soon they had ended up hurting each other more than giving each other pleasure, and to be able to survive the morass of hurt and heartache, Mycroft had found new ways to derive pleasure from their relationship. One way was conveniently pandering to his need of control and had resulted in the incessant surveillance of Sherlock’s every move, with Mycroft enjoying the feeling of comfort and relief whenever he knew exactly what his little brother was doing and where he was.

Mycroft had also found out that he felt surprising jolts of pure desire whenever he was punishing Sherlock for misbehaving, an experience he had quickly learnt his brother enjoyed as well, being on the receiving end of Mycroft’s almighty wrath or desperation, taking a caning or a spanking, preferably on a part of his anatomy where his skin welted easily and marks from the punishment lingered for a long time afterwards. The sensation Mycroft felt when seeing those marks on his brothers body and knowing he was the one who had put them there, was yet another enticement to indulge in this arrangement.

The origin of this particular game stemmed from a rather immature and quite accidental experience years ago, when Sherlock had taunted Mycroft mercilessly one summer by showing too much interest in a holiday guest of their parents, a chemistry teacher of all mundane things a person could have as a profession and several years older as well, but despite these disadvantages, the man was holding a huge fascination with his brother. At least that was how Mycroft had perceived it at the time, Sherlock to this day claimed he had done nothing of the sort. 

In hindsight it was difficult to say who was right, Mycroft could concede that jealousy often had a tendency to cloud his judgement, but that didn’t mean Sherlock had been completely innocent either. If there was one thing they both could rely on, it was that no one could play mind games quite like they could, feelings or other pedestrian objections be damned. 

Stung and angered by his younger brother’s blatant display of disobedience to Mycroft’s hissed-out orders to stop being a tart and Sherlock’s, in Mycroft's opinion, openly shown affection for another man, had led Mycroft to resort to vicious verbal attacks which Sherlock at first had responded to in equal measure, but then, after a few days of warfare, suddenly had retreated from by moving back to his own bedroom for the continuing nights and claiming to be thoroughly done with Mycroft’s dominance. 

This abrupt ending to their tumultuous, but none the less very passionate relationship, combined with his younger brother’s newfound interest in the man their parents rented one of their guest rooms to over the summer, had caused Mycroft to finally lose his composure and with actions clouded by green-eyed jealousy he had after dinner one evening, lured Sherlock to a small lake near their parent’s house and then forced him to the ground, pulled down his trousers and pants and proceeded to give him a thorough beating with a ruler he had brought with him from his old room, that still consisted of things he had saved from his school days.

In hindsight the incident had all the elements of childish behaviour Mycroft, at the age of 24, should have well surpassed.  
The ruler, as well as the spanking, and the luring of his victim to a place where they could easily have been caught, had all been down to immature and base feelings such as impotence, distress and jealousy. The state of such utter loss of control was something he hadn’t experienced since being a little boy, having grown accustomed to the Ice Man persona he had cultivated for several years already. 

But there had been so many pent-up emotions inside of him that had needed an outlet and he hadn’t regretted his actions one bit afterwards. Had things turned out differently he might have regretted them eventually, but from what easily could have turned out to be the pitiful end to the relationship they shared, not only regarding the intimacies but also on a brotherly level, had instead turned out to be a blessing in disguise and also incidentally the key Mycroft had been missing when dealing with Sherlock, which was the fact that his little brother had positively relished the feeling of being punished. 

For a person like Sherlock, who rebelled at almost everything life in general and society in particular had to offer, it was an eye-opener for Mycroft to realise that his little brother actually appreciated the firm hand of punishment to reign him in.  
Not that it did any wonders to his manners, he was still just as rude, snarky and acerbic as always, never a _thank you, please_ or _forgive me_ to be uttered from his lips. But it was a secret Mycroft had now been granted to share with him, quite by accident, but a blissful revelation none the less and in the end it had been what had cemented their relationship into being a thing of solidity instead of running the risk of falling to pieces, beyond repair, as they grew older.

It had been a surprising discovery, at first difficult to grasp that hurting his brother could cause such joy for both of them, but it had also saved them from falling apart on account of the pain they were sometimes prone to cause each other in a non-physical but much more harmful way. 

But now it seemed even that small pleasure was out of reach.

Upon their return to the house, Mycroft had all but frogmarched Sherlock to his bedroom where he had carefully locked the door before removing his belt and then quite forcefully delivered a well-aimed hit over his younger brother’s shoulder blades, causing the fine fabric of the shirt he was wearing to actually tear from the impact.

Normally they had their rituals and they both derived pleasures from them, one being Sherlock usually going down on his knees and removing his clothes before receiving his so-called punishment, then in an act of repentance he would satisfy Mycroft sexually by either fellatio or rimming, both methods meaning Sherlock had to do all the work and really make an effort to appease his brother, since he had so insolently forced Mycroft into physically reprimanding him in the first place. 

Mycroft was never on the receiving end of a belt, cane, ruler or spanking, but he knew Sherlock derived much pleasure from each stroke he got and Mycroft allowed himself that same enjoyment by being the one wielding them.

There was none of that this time though and as soon as Mycroft had dealt the first blow he had regretted it.

Sherlock had remained standing, his back with the torn shirt facing Mycroft, not moving an inch. 

“You know why I had to do that,” Mycroft murmured but got no reply, and instead of remaining in this unbearable silence he aimed once more, just as forcefully, over the same spot.  
Two more hits and he was slightly panting from the excursion now, the anger he had pent up inside of him had made him use all force he was capable of, to deliver the strokes. 

Un uncomfortable atmosphere had settled in the room, Sherlock’s shirt ripped so much it revealed the red angry welts on his otherwise pale and unblemished skin. Despite the considerable pain, as Mycroft had not held back in his force, Sherlock remained straight as a ramrod, refusing to turn and face his brother.

Slowly putting his belt on again and getting his breath under control, Mycroft walked over to the door and unlocked it. 

“Change out of that shirt and be ready for dinner at seven. You have some answers to give, brother mine.”

And with that he was out, his cheeks strangely heated, not from the usual lust he derived from distributing punishments to his brother. If the notion wasn’t so foreign to him, he would have opted for embarrassment. 

Despite his calm exterior earlier, when meeting up with Sherlock and the man who called himself John, Mycroft was anything but calm on the inside.  
The ride home had been a quiet one, with Sherlock stubbornly facing the window during the whole ride, refusing to answer any of Mycroft’s questions. 

The punishment with the belt had simply been a way for Mycroft to vent his ever-increasing frustration and undercurrent of fear. 

He knew that Sherlock as good as always succumbed to old habits eventually, drugs were easily attainable in a city like London and despite Mycroft’s best efforts Sherlock always found ways of procuring whatever he wanted, if he wished to do so. 

It broke Mycroft’s heart a little every time Sherlock did make that choice. But that wasn’t what was bothering him the most this time around.

When Sherlock used drugs he usually followed a specific pattern. 

He became agitated and testy, prone to lashing out and itching for a fight, before he eventually succumbed by pulling some sort of stunt where he evaded Mycroft’s security and disappeared. This could easily have been such a situation and a few days ago Mycroft had even feared it, that the time was upon them again.

But Sherlock always did drugs alone.

There was never any involvement of a second party to his indulgence. So, who the hell was this John character? 

And even more strangely, Sherlock showed no signs of being under any influence whatsoever. A test would of course be needed to assure Mycroft of that, he would demand it later this evening, but none of the usual signs were there, as far as he could see.

So, what sort of situation was this?

It could hardly be a new Victor Trevor-threat arising, where would Sherlock even had had the time or opportunity to meet such a person? 

_Rehab_ , his mind immediately offered, but as Sherlock was always under strict surveillance even in the most impenetrable rehabilitation facilities, Mycroft knew that couldn’t be the case. 

Sure, he had not been able to get a camera feed from inside the latest place, but two bribed nurses, one bribed physician and a bug planted inside Sherlock’s room, as well as in the therapy room, had sufficiently assured him that Sherlock was alright, and at the same time making it easier for him to keep tabs on Sherlock’s progression inside. As he had also closely scrutinized the confidential patient’s list as well as that of the staff working during the time Sherlock had been there, he knew for sure John was not one of them. 

The need to constantly know what Sherlock was doing was so deeply ingrained in Mycroft that it was the first thing on his mind when he woke up, as well as the last before falling asleep. A part of his conscious knew that this type of behaviour was bordering on both unhealthy and obsessive, but at the same time he saw no actual harm in it and was also uncapable of ridding himself of the habit to keep constant watch over his brother’s actions.

As he finished the last pieces of his dinner while Sherlock finally had given up the pretence of fooling anyone into thinking that he was going to eat anything from his plate , Mycroft kept wondering about the thing that puzzled him the most about these new developments. 

The presence of a second party.

Could it be like John himself had said, that their meeting had been incidental? 

It didn’t seem likely though, it was highly uncharacteristic of his brother to take a complete stranger with him when out on one of his little “adventures”, and besides, Miss Bunton had said that the man had been waiting for Sherlock outside S:t Peter’s. They must have known each other from before.

But from where?

He raised his napkin to his lips to dab at his mouth before putting it down next to his plate, arranging his cutlery in the fashion to dictate that he was finished before turning his gaze to look at Sherlock.

The lashing out with the belt earlier had been a mistake, it had not brought them back together but instead further apart. It was a first, as far as that method was concerned, but perhaps Mycroft had miscalculated the situation this time. Besides, his brother was often fond of changing the rules of the game in an effort to rattle Mycroft, this was probably no different from his usual antics. Luckily Mycroft liked a good strategy and knew how to play even when not having all the pieces presented yet.

“So, question time, little brother. I’m assuming you’re still unwilling to share information unprompted, so let me entice you, shall I?”

Lacing hic fingers together in front of him, Mycroft leaned forward, a sinister smile on his lips now. 

“You don’t see the outside of this place unless I permit it and you don’t have a phone of your own with which to call anyone. And until today I actually thought that you had no one of significance to call anyway and therefore a phone wasn’t something you would be in need of. But, turns out you in fact _have_ someone to call after all. And let’s not pretend that you wouldn’t know how to get his number. If you haven’t already procured it that is?”

Sherlock tilted his head and let out a small, dramatic sigh, as if already utterly bored with the situation.

“I thought you were trying to entice me, not bore me to death.”

“Oh, we’re getting there, don’t you worry."

"Hurry up then, I'm in danger of falling asleep as it is."

Ignoring his brother's usual tiresome impertinence Mycroft continued.

"I might feel inclined to give you a phone after all…"

“That you’ll immediately listen in on from the very first second,” Sherlock objected.

“…if you tell me who John is, where you met him and perhaps, most importantly, what it was you were doing together.”

“Can’t you figure it out? You always claim to be the smart one.”

“You know perfectly well you managed to avoid all cameras up to the point of choosing to be seen again. It would be impressive if it wasn't, at the same time, so utterly immature. The cameras are not your enemy, Sherlock. Unless you have something to hide of course.”

“I’m clean, Mycroft.”

“I will still insist on a test…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Of course. Why take my word for it like a trusting member of a normal family would do?”

Mycroft snorted at those words.

“Since when do you care for being normal? I’m surprised you’re even familiar with the concept, considering how much you endeavour to be anything but. But let’s not digress from the matter at hand. He mentioned something about a crime scene? What did he refer to?”

“Why do want to know that particular information? Getting nervous?”

Mycroft frowned, actually surprised by this comment.

“Why should I? I have nothing to be nervous about.”

“You _seem_ nervous.”

“Then your deductive skills are slipping, little brother. But I _am_ curious about whatever it was the two of you were up to this afternoon. Must have been something of significant importance considering that you opted to skip your appointment at the Narcotics Anonymous meeting. An appointment you are contractually bound to attend if you care for your continuous freedom, I might add.”

“One missed appointment won’t matter. Unless you make sure it does, of course. There is always the overbearing brother to factor in. Out of spite you could easily twist the situation, so it becomes an obstacle for me.”

“I _could_ be so inclined, certainly. It rather depends on what you were doing today, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock sighed, pushing his plate away from him, untouched. Then he tilted his head to the side while looking at Mycroft. A smirk was slowly making its way over his lips. 

He looked positively feral.

“Maybe I like the fact that you don’t know exactly everything. That this bothers you so much that you’re about to combust from curiosity. I think I like that idea very much actually. Just look at you, Mycroft, positively ready to _burst_ , both figuratively as well as metaphorically. Let’s see what gets you first, shall we?”

They stared at each other, but where Mycroft did his outmost to steel himself despite a burning wish to slap that smirk from his brother’s lips, Sherlock looked positively taunting, despite the fact that he was the one who had received four hard slashes with Mycroft’s belt earlier. 

It was galling and made Mycroft wonder for the umptieth time why it always felt like Sherlock knew exactly how to behave in order to infuriate his brother the most. 

In an effort to seem indifferent he made the smallest twitch of an eyebrow while putting on his most uninterested face. He wasn’t willing to participate in whatever it was Sherlock was trying to accomplish. He was tired of playing games.

“Well, if you’re refusing to tell me anything about what you and this mysterious John were up to today, or where you even met this man in the first place, I am going to assume that it has to do with something unsavoury and treat it accordingly.”

“That would be your usual modus operandi, nothing new with that.”

“Perhaps not, but you seldom leave me with a different option. If you actually complied just once, we could be having a different conversation.”

Sherlock rose slowly from his chair and for a second Mycroft thought that he was simply going to leave, because was there actually more to say in this matter when his brother simply refused to offer any information about his doings and whereabouts, neither today or during the evening of the concert? 

Mycroft had other ways of obtaining the information anyway and Sherlock knew that, as well as knowing that Mycroft could suddenly feel inclined to turn those screws on his little brother's existence even harder. Staying locked up in this veritable cage without opportunity to communicate or participate with the word outside would seem like a walk in the park if Mycroft decided to tighten the reins. 

But if Mycroft had thought his brother would simply walk away from the conversation, he was proven wrong when Sherlock instead walked over to where Mycroft was still seated, leaned back in his chair, hands interlocked over his overly full stomach. Even if Sherlock refused the food, Mycroft certainly wasn’t willing to and when under distress, he had a tendency to overindulge.

In a fluid motion Sherlock sat down on the edge of the table, close enough for his leg to touch Mycroft’s and like a serpent he leaned forward, closer to his brother’s face.

“You really are ready to burst, aren’t you, Mycroft?”

His voice sent an uneasy shiver through Mycroft, but it was the eyes that were the hardest to ignore, their strange habit of changing colour in different lighting made his younger brother seem otherworldly sometimes, and combined with his other unique features, it had always been difficult for Mycroft to simply look away, especially when in this close proximity. 

“So, _brother_ , what exactly is it that you want from me?” Sherlock said, his voice smooth like velvet, going down an octave or two.

The smirk changed as well. It was still a smile, but sweeter now, the eyes impossibly huge from where Mycroft sitting, he was doing his best not to look straight into them.

“Information-wise, I mean” Sherlock added with faux-innocence. 

Mycroft cleared his throat, it felt positively parched all of sudden, the room very hot and his body uncomfortably heavy. He wished he hadn't taken a third helping. 

He hadn’t noticed Sherlock moving closer, but it felt like the space between them had grown smaller none the less.

Afraid that if trying to say something it would come out as an undignified squeak; he instead chose to stay silent and see where this was headed. 

Sherlock's eyes glimmered in the light from the lamp above him, they were green now. Hadn't they been blue just seconds ago?

“Because we could perhaps come to an arrangement after all,” he purred sweetly.

Mycroft steeled himself once again and broke eye contact. He felt better when not focusing directly on Sherlock's face. He chose a spot above his brother's dark curls instead to look at before he answered.

“Not liking the treatment you received earlier, then?””

It was a barb and he could actually see how it cut into his brother, however much Sherlock tried to supress the reaction. Feeling the regain of control, Mycroft continued.

“Because there is always that particular solution on offer to our little dilemma. You, at the end of my tether, whether you like it or not. And perhaps I don’t need to know everything about you.”

“Oh, we both know that isn’t true,” Sherlock drawled, not discouraged by Mycroft’s regained confidence.

“Maybe I _could_ be satisfied with the knowledge that you are here, for me to do whatever I want with, and not bother about the clutter you try to impose on me with your attempts at rebellion. Because you never have succeeded with those attempts before, have you, Sherlock?”

“Well, that's not quite true either.”

“Oh, you mean those little attempts of yours with Victor? Have actually you forgotten how those ended?”

“No, it’s still crystal clear.”

“Good then.”

Mycroft untangled his fingers and lifted one of his hands to take a firm but still fond grip of Sherlock’s chin, so he couldn’t turn his face away from him.

“I am willing to forget this whole incident, if you promise me to stop whatever game it is your trying to initiate. I am, as you perfectly well know, not in the forgiving vein per usual, so you should really consider taking me up on my offer, Sherlock. “

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then consequences could be very severe indeed. Consider this afternoon a foretaste of coming events.”

He turned his eyes back to look into Sherlock's again. They were still glimmering, but now blue once more.

“And what if I told you that the crime scene we went to visit today was that of a man in a burnt-out car, found two nights ago with a bag of drugs surprisingly intact in the gloves compartment?”

Mycroft tilted his head, the index finger of the hand still holding Sherlock’s chin now moving fondly against the jawline, the smallest hint of a smile forming on his lips.

“Then I would tell you to stay well away from my computer in the future and leave the staged crime scenes alone, to be dealt with by the people who initiated them.”

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly in comprehension, but the smile was still intact.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally hears from Sherlock and they make plans to meet again, despite Mycroft's threat of what's to come if his brother continues to disobey him.

A few days went by without John hearing a word from Sherlock and the giddiness from their last meeting had begun to wear off, to be replaced by his usual logic once more. 

He had reported back to Moran after that Friday afternoon and then been contacted two more times, just to disappoint by not having made any further progress.

“I don’t understand what could have clouded your judgement so much that you were unable to get any form of contact information from him? Not a phone number or an address, not even to his bloody e-mail! The way you describe it, it actually sounded like you were hitting it off well enough. As much as anyone can hit it off with a man like Sherlock Holmes.”

Moran was clearly disappointed, and John couldn’t help but feel annoyed over that reaction from his boss. It wasn’t his fault that Mycroft Holmes had decided to intervene before he had the chance to ask properly for a way to talk to Sherlock more freely.

“You weren’t there, so it’s hard to explain, but his brother was very intimidating. He didn’t even need to say that much, it was simply his presence, it made it difficult to focus. And I _did_ try to ask Sherlock, just before they departed!”

“Yes, yes, you told me. But still, it’s surprising. Never knew you could be intimidated enough not to function reasonably, that’s a new side of you, Watson. But I get it, when it comes to Mycroft Holmes people apparently scuttle off in fear, just by him giving them a dark look. I did warn you that he’s a cold one. Didn’t think he would affect you this way, though.”

“Have you actually met him?”

“No, not in person. I have _observed_ him a few times, him and his brother, The Ice man and The Junkie, as I like to call them. So, yeah, I know a little. I used to be the one who originally had them under surveillance. Most of the time it was pretty boring, junior spent a great deal in rehab and the other one worked constantly. We did try to entice Mycroft by sending temptations his way, everything imaginable, but he never took the bait. I’ve never come across someone like him before. People always have a weakness, but we never found anything that we could use against him, not even the pretty dark, unorthodox stuff people do their utmost to hide from the world but still desire in secret. The brother was out of reach and sort of kept in the dark while recovering from his many relapses. That he is still alive actually surprises me, there’s a mad streak in that one and it would probably be better if he was put out of his misery, the way you would with a dog who'd lost his marbles. Lucky for us though, he can be used this time around. It actually took us a while back then to figure out where he was being kept, the older brother never visited him while he was recuperating, not even once. So, it surprised us a bit when one day he just showed up on our radar, moving in with his brother. It didn’t last long though, three weeks I think, and well, you know the story.”

Yes, John knew the rest. 

To hear that Mycroft had never visited Sherlock when he had been rehabilitated was unexpected news, especially when you considered the way he kept his little brother under such intense scrutiny while out of rehab. Maybe Mycroft Holmes only cared for his brother not to fall back into drug abuse out of familial responsibility and out of a wish to control the situation?

John knew how difficult it was to have a sibling who constantly chose the wrong path, the frustration over not being able to either help or even understand the choices being made by an addict. Where John had simply given up and left Harry to her own devises, Mycroft was apparently still marching on. He had the resources to do it and the luxury of outsourcing everything that needed to be done so he could to keep Sherlock away from temptation. It wasn’t working very well though if history was anything to go by. 

And considering with what flippancy Sherlock had skipped that NA meeting, it was bound to end badly soon enough. 

Maybe Moran was right in that it would have been better for Sherlock to have been put out of this tortuous existence. John couldn’t fathom how he could endure it quite frankly. 

Sherlock didn’t seem like a person inclined to ending his life, but who knew what thoughts were spinning inside that brain of his?

And yet, the idea of someone like Sherlock, with that brilliance he hid beneath the snarky front, the beauty of his features, the fact that he wasn’t even thirty yet, it all seemed such a waste if it was to be forever lost on account of an untimely ending. John frankly couldn’t endure thinking about it and wasn’t that very surprising considering that he hardly knew the man?

 

It took almost eight days before contact was finally initiated.

John was at home, watching a little late-night telly, it being well past his usual bedtime but the restlessness with not hearing from Sherlock had made it difficult to fall asleep lately, so he had taken to staying up later than usual.  
The first nights he had been doing practical things like cleaning his weapon, tidying up a bit in the flat, trying to read a book he had been meaning to finish for ages but found difficult to find interest in. Eventually he had simply developed a habit of watching whatever was on the telly at this late hour. The triviality of what was being shown during the night usually put him to sleep eventually, if the reading didn’t do the trick.

It was almost one o’clock when his phone suddenly alerted him of an incoming text.

Somewhat surprised, considering the time, he reached for the phone that was lying on the coffee table in front of him. 

_Body of crime scene confirmed to be staged. S.H_

John frowned at first, before his brain caught up with what his eyes were reading. 

S.H?

Sherlock Holmes of course!

Without meaning to, a smile was immediately spreading into a grin, despite the tiredness he was experiencing on account of the late hour, a spark of that same giddiness he had felt last time making a hasty return.

Without hesitation he started typing back.

_Interesting. But you still owe me an explanation of how you figured that out._

He considered typing in a J.W at the end but then refrained from it. If Sherlock had his number it would be redundant to sign his texts, Sherlock obviously knew who he was texting.

He hit send just as the essence of his own thought hit him. 

How did Sherlock actually have his number? 

He had wondered about that for the last couple of days, remembering Sherlock telling him that he had his number in that deep voice of his that still sent ripples of pleasure down John’s spine at the thought of it. Before he had the chance to ask about it, a new text arrived.

_I have the number because your phone is a veritable security leak when it comes to personal information. Your mobile banking app informed me that you only had 250 pounds on your account the last time we met and the answer to your security question if you lose your password to your mail account is Dexter. I’m assuming the name refers to a childhood pet and not what your teacher was called in elementary school, but I cannot be certain without further evidence. I would strongly advise you to protect the content of your phone more adequately in the future._

What the bloody hell?!

With a frown John typed out a reply.

_When did you even manage to see all this? I watched you almost the entire time!_

The reply was instant.

_Please. It was child’s play, took me but mere seconds. A skilled pickpocket could do it just as easily._

Well, that was worrisome. He would have to look into that soon, perhaps ask Moran for some advice.

He decided to change the subject.

_So, having trouble sleeping as well?_

There was no reply to that and after five minutes John caved in and wrote another text.

_Hey, you still there?_

This time a reply came quicker, but it was short and succinct.

_Yes._

John got the feeling that he would lose this opportunity and perhaps Sherlock’s interest as well if he didn’t come up with something substantial next. Without hesitation he wrote back.

_I believe you promised to tell me the explanation to your theories about the crime scene next time we met…_

Sherlock wrote back in a way John could actually hear the man’s voice saying to him, in that specific combination of impatience with the hint of superiority which technically should rub John the wrong way but for some unfathomable reason didn’t. 

_Not sure there was mention of another meeting? I believe I simply told you that I would explain next time._

John smirked. 

Was Sherlock perhaps playing hard to get? 

Well, he guessed he would have to ask straight out then.

_I would like to meet again._

Short and to the point.

He waited and when the time started ticking away, he was worried that a reply might not actually be coming. Just as he was about to distress and try figuring out how to save this situation by forming another question, his phone finally pinged.

_Can’t risk skipping yet another meeting. The church is open to the public, wait for me after the meeting, inside the men’s room. Tuesday, 11:30 am, arrive as close to the actual time as possible and come through the entrance at the back instead of the one I used last time._

John felt a surge of excitement when reading this and immediately chided himself for it, persuading himself that it was only on account of his mission and that the plan was seemingly on track again. 

A voice inside his head dryly informed him how idiotic it was to be in denial with yourself, but he ignored it while typing out his answer, consciously choosing to leave out any obvious signs of happiness with this proposition.

_Great. See you Tuesday then._

_Looking forward to it_ was initially typed out but then deleted before he hit send.

He waited another five minutes before giving up. There wasn’t going to be a reply.

Still happy about this outcome though, he turned his attention back to the tv. There wasn’t a chance in hell that he would be able to sleep straight after this development, so he settled himself comfortably in the sofa again and continued to watch the telly. 

There was a rerun of the Great British Bake off on Channel 4 and he spent the next twenty minutes trying to watch the contenders make a traditional trifle with a modern twist while simultaneously thinking about the fact that he was going to meet Sherlock again in three days’ time and how he was going to succeed in moving things forward regarding Mycroft, before finally dosing off where he was, just as Mary Berry took her first bite of the desserts presented to the judges.

 

Inside the house in Holland Park Sherlock was lying back in bed again, after having made sure to delete all his activities on the phone he had used.  
His brother was a far more difficult person regarding security breaches than John was, Mycroft’s phone actually took some effort getting into, but Sherlock liked a challenge and made sure to actually delete all signs of his intrusion this time.

A repeat of events from the last time he had “borrowed” this phone and his unfortunate attempt at contacting Vince, a drug dealer he knew always could be relied upon to deliver exactly what Sherlock had a craving for, had turned out to be a fatal mistake. 

Fatal for Vince at least. 

No wonder Mycroft had been in such a foul mood before going to the concert, considering he had known all along that Sherlock was going to use the opportunity to buy drugs. In hindsight Sherlock should have figured out the reason for his brother’s anger and both of them ought to feel grateful for John showing up when he did. 

Mycroft didn’t know that John had been there though; he still had no clue what Sherlock had been up to that evening and despite trying to figure it out, he hadn’t succeeded. 

The drug test he had forced upon Sherlock afterwards had obviously displayed no signs of any substance abuse, but by then poor old Vince had been beyond saving anyway. 

The other test, performed after the skipped NA meeting, had also come up negative and Sherlock could tell how this result both pleased but also confused his brother. It just meant he had even more questions he needed to find the answers to, since Sherlock wasn’t particularly forthcoming.

Sherlock turned over to the side so he could face the sleeping form of his brother next to him. 

Mycroft was a surprisingly heavy sleeper for being a person with so many trust issues and suspicions constantly occupying his thought process. 

Sherlock idly let his fingers play with the chest hair presented to him on his brother’s torso, a pattern of freckles visible beneath the hair, something Sherlock had found very fascinating when younger, comparing his brother’s skin to his own, which was close to unblemished, marred only by the occasional birth mark.

He sometimes wondered if he was the one who had turned Mycroft into this paranoid and controlling creature, or if it had all been down to his occupation.  
Maybe Mycroft had been born with this mind set, although Sherlock couldn’t truly know what his brother had been like as a small child, on account of not yet having been born himself.  
He had always been a person of order though and that surely demanded some sort of control. Perhaps he had been predestined to turn out this way and Sherlock had merely provided the fodder needed to make it bloom. 

Sherlock tried figuring out if that was a distressing notion or if he simply couldn’t be bothered to care.  
The outcome was strangely inconclusive.

The last couple of days had been quite peaceful, especially considering the events preceding them. Mycroft hadn’t exactly mellowed after the sex that had followed their fraught dinner but he had relaxed a little at least, as much as he was capable of doing so, and subsequently so had Sherlock. 

This was what their turbulent relationship usually consisted of - tension followed by periods of temporary calmness, as if gathering strength to be able to face the next storm. 

Sherlock knew it was particularly exhausting for Mycroft who always seemed tightly-wound on a permanent basis for whatever reason, which was ironic considering Sherlock being the one likely to suffer from abstinence and edginess, so he tried to at least seemingly behave for a little while, without losing anything of himself in the process. 

Contrary to popular belief Sherlock actually was able show affection when he chose to, and when doing that, nothing could satisfy his brother more.  
Mycroft was more rigid and set in his archaic ways, he had difficulty showing what he perceived to be a weakness by displaying too much emotions openly. 

In the beginning that had been difficult for Sherlock to come to terms with, he was a person who craved attention and when not receiving it, he quickly turned snappy. That hardly encouraged his brother to be more affectionate and they always risked getting stuck in that vicious wheel of bickering.  
But usually it was Sherlock who got them out of it again, mostly because the boredom of keeping up a fight that was leading them nowhere, taking too much time and energy for his liking.

This past week had displayed the up side of the relationship, the glue that actually kept them together.  
Mycroft had in his own subtle way repented for the brutal trashing with the belt and Sherlock had behaved in the way his brother liked best, they had gone back to sharing Mycroft’s bed again and there was a calmness in the house that made it easier to breathe. 

It wouldn’t last of course, it never did and the fact that Sherlock had stolen Mycroft’s phone after his brother had fallen asleep tonight, so he could text John with it, was a sure sign of that.

But in this moment everything was yet rather enjoyable, this fleeting peace between them and while Mycroft was heavily asleep, Sherlock, who seldom found the peace to fall asleep as easily as his brother, still managed to take pleasure in the shared proximity of their warm bodies, even when not participating in any sexual acts.

He sometimes entertained himself by mapping out the changes in his brother’s body in comparison to the last time he had seen him. 

That usually occurred in the beginning of a return to Mycroft’s house and it could keep him entertained for quite some time as his brother had the fascinating habit of actually going through bodily changes rather continuously, such as gaining weight, losing it again, gaining some of it back but manifesting it in a new place on the body, the occurrence of a new mole, the loss of hair on his head, the additional wrinkle on his face, some signs of tiredness, stress or worry that manifested itself in his features, it was endlessly entertaining in the beginning and one of his favourite past times to indulge in while his brother lay sleeping next to him.

Sometimes he experimented with how much he could get away with without rousing Mycroft from his sleep.

It could be different things, sometimes sexual, sometimes pain-related, at other times simply experimentation regarding the senses, like smell, feel, taste or hearing. That was also something that could provide entertainment for those sleepless nights and results could differ from time to time. 

But right now, Sherlock was actually content in just enjoying the proximity of their bodies next to each other in that large, fluffy bed in Mycroft’s room.

Earlier this evening they had indulged in sex that hadn’t contained the otherwise more regular influence of punishment and pain. 

Sherlock in particular wasn’t too fond of normal lovemaking, he wanted the act to be experimental, raw and usually with a hint of power play involved, but sometimes he conceded that it was a good thing to vary the repertoire a bit and just indulge in what usually constituted as lovemaking of the common variety. 

In general Mycroft was much more affectionate and prone to compliment him when having sex the old-fashioned way, and it was arguably an enjoyable change for Sherlock as well even if he sometimes lost his patience with the slowness of pace , unfortunately it also had the added disadvantage of reminding him of what he had once shared with Victor. 

That usually put a dampener on the experience and Sherlock always felt a bit melancholy afterwards. 

Whenever his brother noticed this and succeeded in figuring out the reason for it, things really went from bad to worse, with Mycroft hating the idea of Sherlock even thinking about Victor and Sherlock resenting his brother for jealously trying to control his thoughts a long with everything else in his life.

Perhaps that was the reason for things usually starting to go do downhill after they had enjoyed this type of lovemaking which was so out of their usual routine.  
It brought things to the surface that still smarted between them, old resentments and wounds that had been left unhealed on account of their inability to solve any issues between them. 

This was soon followed by in itch inside of Sherlock that prompted him to rebel against his brother and everything that he represented.

Sherlock’s biggest issue with Mycroft was definitely his brother’s jealousy and his excessive need to control his little brother. Just the thought of it raised Sherlock’s hackles and made him think even more about what Mycroft’s possessiveness had resulted in over the years, and then promptly made him want to run away and never come back. 

That was usually when he started to lie and manipulate so he could gain more freedom and power over his own life, which subsequently often led to the beginning of the end to the peaceful period of their time together. He had yet to make it through one of those changing periods without succumbing to either escape or drugs.

Trying to reason with Mycroft about these things was pointless. 

His brother could concede that he was jealous and possessive and even dangerous if something was threatening Sherlock or their relationship, they were both aware of this fact. What he couldn’t admit was that he should loosen the reins and allow his brother a little more freedom. Mycroft stubbornly saw no fault in his actions and it was usually when coming to this point in the conversation that it turned into an argument instead and quickly escalated to a veritable fight between them.

They were not quite there yet, but soon perhaps.

Sherlock let his hand glide down Mycroft’s abdomen absentmindedly while letting his thoughts travel back to John.

Now there was an interesting puzzle.

Sherlock was intrigued by all the question marks surrounding this man. 

He was clearly not unemployed, whatever he claimed, but had no distinct signs available for Sherlock to deduce what it was he actually did for a living either.  
He always had time to meet up, whenever Sherlock wanted him to, which indicated that he couldn’t have a 9-5 job, but the standard of his clothing and hygiene regime meant that he had a home and the resources to invest in adequate grooming so he must be recieving money from somewhere. At the same time nothing he wore was luxurious enough to indicate that he was free during the day because he was so wealthy he could forego work completely. 

When John had been told about how he was being cautious about his hands on account of his old job as a surgeon, it had been the truth. But signs indicated that it was more out of habit than actual care anymore, and now John had begun to forego those precautions more often.  
Perhaps the most interesting part from that deduction was a small but distinct callous on his index finger, making Sherlock draw the conclusion that it would be more accurate to call it his trigger finger since that was where the callous stemmed from.  
John had probably used a weapon in the army despite working on the medical team, he gave off that particular vibe of a person who would not stand idly by in the eye of danger. But that had been over a year ago and that callous would not still be there if it originated from the army days. 

So the conclusion must be that he was still using a gun on a regular basis, and if not actually shooting with it every time, he was at least holding it in the firing position often enough for him to show the physical signs on his finger. 

What kind of person did that, here in London, combined with all the other signs Sherock had already deduced about him from the night of the concert? It was an intricate question indeed.

The biggest question mark was perhaps what John’s intentions with Sherlock where. 

He was obviously a terrible liar, that story about being stood up by his date at the concert was straight out ridiculous and cringeworthy. He had seemed aware of this himself considering the display of subdued insecurity whenever mentioning this supposed date. 

He had also acted surprisingly off guard when Sherlock had mentioned that he didn’t do the dating thing. It was as if John had wanted to question this statement, like he had some insight on the subject but not willing or able to let on what that particular knowledge was. He couldn't possivly know about Mycroft, so what had that reaction been about?

John had also been rather careful with the information he gave away about himself when they spoke, to the point of not even offering his name until at the end of their second meeting. 

He had given his true name though, the signs of him lying had been noticeably absent.

So what Sherlock had been able to gather so far was that this was a man named John who had formerly been an army doctor but had been sent home because of a gun wound in the shoulder and no longer practised in his former profession. What he did instead was still inconclusive but it involved the use of a gun and apparently gave him a lot of spare time and also a steady but not overly wealthy income.  
He was a terrible liar but did apparently lie when he found it necessary. Why it had been essential to lie about a non-existent date was most likely to account for his presence at the concert hall that night and yet never attending the actual auditorium. This indicated a spur of the moment decision for him to be there, otherwise he would have gotten tickets in advance.

Another conclusion was that John almost definitely had some sort of interest in creating a connection with Sherlock. 

Why that was, was still unclear. And Sherlock still had no clue about how John could have known that he and Mycroft would be at the concert that particular evening.

Very intriguing indeed....

The ironic thing was that Sherlock could have chosen to expose all of this when meeting up with John the second time they met. He had actually been about to do so a couple of times, but then decided against it. It was far more entertaining to see where this was eventually going to lead.

And now they were going to meet for a third time.

Sherlock felt like he needed further clues to see if he could form a more conclusive solution to this mystery and the only way to do so was to meet John again, even if it wasn’t a particularly wise move so soon after the fight with Mycroft. 

His brother was already paranoid about Sherlock meeting other people, not only on account of jealousy but also out of fear for Sherlock using again. The scars of the past ran deep and had showed them both what Mycroft was capable of when provoked. His brother's trust issues were so ingrained that any threat in the form of another person in Sherlock’s vicinity was bound to cause mayhem and Sherlock’s continuous association with John would be no different. 

But still, he couldn’t just drop this, it was perhaps the most interesting thing he had to occupy his mind with at the moment, while otherwise rotting away inside Mycroft's homemade prison. 

The prospect of talking about this with his brother was not a tempting one and would not be happening, despite the risks involved in duping Mycroft yet again.

Even if he could reluctantly concede to himself that his brother might be the more intelligent one out of the two, it wasn’t something he would ever openly admit to, and talking about anything he hadn’t fully figured out himself, just so he could get the answer nonchalantly explained to him in a smug drawl from his older brother, was not a scenario he had ever enjoyed being exposed to. 

So no, despite the hazard of sneaking under Mycroft’s nose once more and meeting up with John, suspicious as it would seem if he got caught in the men’s room at S:t Peters with a person Mycroft had told him to stop seeing until he could explain what it was they were up to, he was still willing to take that risk, just to see if he could figure out what this was all about.

Content with this solution he curled up and rested his head on Mycroft’s chest, listening to him snooring slightly in his oblivious sleep. 

There was still time left for some calmness before the storm he thought.


	9. Chapter 9

Considering how relatively calm it had been between him and Sherlock over the past week Mycroft found nothing to be extra cautious about when Tuesday came and his brother was supposed to go to his obligatory appointment with NA. Sherlock had already attended two meeting the week before without any incidents beyond complaining about how boring these gatherings were.  
Considering the fact that Sherlock found a lot of things boring, Mycroft didn’t bother replying to his brother’s complaints. There was no use getting into a discussion on the subject as even Mycroft couldn’t win arguments with a person who so resolutely refused to budge from his declared opinion. 

Despite Sherlock’s apparent calmness at the moment Mycroft of course couldn’t rid himself completely of his wish to keep his brother under surveillance, even if it right at this moment was more out of a wish to simply see him rather than out of some obvious concern. The edginess his brother had previously displayed that often was an indicator for him craving chemical stimulants had not been apparent for the past week and despite Mycroft feeling a sting of regret over the incident with the belt, it felt like it had undone a tension between them that had been threatening to destroy their brittle relationship once more. 

Sherlock, while still bordering on devious occasionally, had calmed down after the sex they had enjoyed after the dinner conversation and to top it all off, the mysterious John had not been seen or heard of for over a week. In reality that didn’t mean he wouldn’t show up ever again, but the longer he stayed away, the better. Mycroft had made sure to state quite firmly that he forbid Sherlock for seeing him again. 

That was why it deeply displeased him when his phone via a text informed him that this very man had been spotted by Miss Bunton in the vicinity of S:t Peters, mere minutes before the ending of Sherlock’s appointment and that Mycroft was asked to get in contact as soon as possible. 

As he was currently in a meeting of dire character with the Prime Minister and The Foreign Secretary as well as The Chief of MI6 and his equivalent from The Federal Security Service of The Russian Federation, and considering the already rather frosty tone of communication in the room, it would hardly be advisable to leave. Despite this, his concentration on the situation at hand was broken by his need to find out what this information meant, although he could wager a good guess at the situation that was going to be presented to him. Therefore, he made his apologies and excused himself for minute, citing another pressing matter as the reason and stepped out into the corridor to call Miss Bunton.

She tersley informed him that John had been seen entering the church from the back entrance and that Sherlock had not exited when the meeting was over, keeping the car that was supposed to take him home, waiting in vain outside.  
After giving him another few minutes she had decided to enter the church but had not been able to spot either of them inside. She had eventually breached the men’s room and the window in there had been open, suggesting an escape through it, although that had not yet been confirmed. Since no one had been seen exiting through the back door it was highly likely though.

Despite his inexpressive facade Mycroft felt like he was going to explode on the inside. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose while still managing to keep his voice steady, he conveyed a noticeable frosty tone while speaking, to indicate that he had come to the end of his patience with Miss Bunton’s failures at performing the work she was assigned to do.

“So you’re telling me that you have managed not only to let wretched that man get in contact with my brother, against my explicit order not to, but you have also managed to lose sight of them a second time, despite the first time being bad enough? I would have thought that the last incident had given an indicator to what needed to be improved so a similar situation could be prevented. Considering the fate of your previous superior, Mr Parker, it should have been clear that no further failures would be tolerated. “

Miss Bunton was of a sterner character than the man who had, until recently, been her boss, and that was one of the reasons Mycroft had actually decided to give her another chance to redeem herself, although right now, sorely regretting that decision. 

She was one of those people not willing to take a chiding quietly.

“Mr Holmes. If our target was more willing to comply by the rules it would make our job much more manageable.”

“The very reason you are assigned to this task is because he _doesn’t_ comply to rules. If he did, I wouldn’t need you,” Mycroft dryly pointed out.

Without being deterred by this, Miss Bunton continued.

“As it is now, we do our outmost to keep him safe and under surveillance, but with him constantly breaking the regulations, it’s difficult to foresee every possible aspect or scenario he might provide us with. We have no possibility to keep a public rest room under surveillance, and if he choses to climb out of a window we can’t prevent that from happening. You would need a bodyguard following him around at all hours to stop that from happening, but quite honestly I might be tempted to say that even such a person would be unable to foresee everything your brother comes up with.” 

She managed to convey her thoughts on said brother quite clearly by putting as much disdain as she could muster into the very word and if Mycroft hadn’t been so extremely vexed about the situation, he might have actually admired her stance more.  
As it was now, he merely saw the same obstinacy he saw in everyone not following his exact orders and therefore making his existence more stressful. 

Being a man used to work with people he considered to be in a variable degree of stupidity, he had worked out a way of still remaining aloof to the most preposterous of behaviour from the majority of them, reprimanding them if necessary but also understanding the value of good diplomacy and tact. However, when it concerned his brother, all those good intentions immediately flew out the window and tact was the farthest from his mind right now.  
But he didn’t get the opportunity to express his huge dismay with her before she continued.

“What we _can_ do is trying to keep his contact to a minimum with this man, John, but as we could not have foreseen that they had somehow been in contact, this outcome could not have been prevented considering the premises we had to work with. I thought you told us that your brother didn’t have a phone? It would be very interesting to hear how these two have managed to communicate with each other without one.” 

The last sentence hinted that she clearly blamed Mycroft for some misinformation and he had the suspicious feeling that he knew the answer without actually having been willing to consider it earlier. 

Sherlock had after all used this method once before. 

Seeing the way it had played out the last time, Mycroft would have thought his brother to be discouraged from further attempts, but that whas apparently not the case. He also knew that despite doing his outmost to try keeping his brother out of his phone, there wasn’t much that could curb his efforts if Sherlock was really intent on getting access to something. 

During their whole life his little brother could not be persuaded to keep his nose out of Mycroft’s private matters.  
There had been stolen wallets, pickpocketed in weak moments of carelessness, the intrusion of locked drawers in Mycroft’s room while he was away at school, the reading of secret work-related documents that had been kept in an actual safe, and obviously also several successful attempts at gaining access both to Mycroft’s computer as well as his phone. Nothing had been out of bounds from Sherlock’s curiosity and nimble fingers. 

The idea that Sherlock had probably been so callous that he had waited for Mycroft to fall asleep before finding the phone and using it, perhaps even while still lying next to him, made his blood boil. 

But despite the immediate feeling that he needed to smash something to pieces with utter force, he understood the value of being effecient considering the urgency both he and Miss Bunton were under, him on account of needing to go back to the crisis inside the meeting room and Miss Bunton with tracking Sherlock and John down before even further distance was put between her and them. 

“How they have been communicating will be dealt with accordingly and is not of any concern to you at the moment. What you need to do is tell me what you have been doing to track them down and then get on with finding them as soon as possible. When that is done, you inform me immediately and I ‘ll take over. Your successor will handle further surveillance as from today, and you can consider yourself dismissed. Should that tempt you to leave this assignment before procuring my brother, you will find it very difficult getting another job. Find him and you may be glad that loosing _this_ particular job is the only thing you will experience.”

With that he disconnected the call and got back to his meeting, clamping down the anger threatening to overtake him even further.  
He would have to save that anger for later.

\-------

Half an hour earlier John found himself looking at Sherlock’s very pert and delectable arse as the man it was attached to wiggled his way out of a small window inside the men’s room at S:t Peters.

He had done exactly as Sherlock had asked him to do, which was to arrive as close to 11:30 as possible. Well aware of the CCTV camera perched in the corner, overlooking the back door to the church, he understood that order very well. Even if there didn’t seem to be anyone physically keeping watch back there, he had no illusions about Mycroft and his omnipotent powers failing to notice that John was approaching a building Sherlock was currently residing in and that time therefore was of essence.

When entering the church he had no problems locating the men’s room.  
On his way there, he saw a group of people beginning to drop out from one of the rooms further down the hall, none of them Sherlock, but his guess was that the meeting had just ended. 

A quick glance at the other participants told him that they looked like a varied bunch of people, some of them older but mostly younger, between the age of twenty to thirty, many of them very ordinary looking, perhaps a bit worn but otherwise no obvious signs of past drug abuse.  
No one looked even remotley as posh as Sherlock though, he must surely stand out in this group with his designer suit and general air of public-school education.

While slipping inside the men's room to wait. John wondered how come this was the place they had chosen for Sherlock to attend his meetings, other than the relative closeness to the house in Holland Park. Perhaps it had been chosen randomly although he had difficulty seeing Mycroft doing anything by chance. Perhaps his brother had not been allowed to have a say in the matter? 

That must have gone down well, he mused with a smirk.

He hadn’t been kept waiting long until Sherlock came swanning in, the door tossed open with splendid force, revealing the man John had to admit had kept his thoughts occupied for the last couple of days. Today, like the previous times, he was dressed in yet another slim-fitting suit, and an icy-blue shirt underneath. No great coat this time and the dark curls in a slight disarray as if he had pulled his fingers through them several times during the meeting. You could feel the irritation radiating off him in waves, hating the idea of being forced to participate in these meetings.

John was beginning to worry that his appreciation of Sherlock’s appearance and fascination with the man himself, was perhaps something he unwittingly had begun signalling to people around him, point in case being Moran who first called for a quick progress report but then also decided to drop by unexpectantly on Monday and had regarded John with a scrutinizing look throughout the whole visit.

Finally he had lost his patience with Moran’s mild expression of pity and blurted out:

“What?!”

“You tell me, Watson. You’re more tightly wound than a coil spring. This mission already getting to you? Or is it rather _someone_?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John had curtly snapped and Moran had dropped the subject, but before he left he said:

“That younger brother, he has a way of getting under people’s skin. So even if the older one is who we’re trying to focus on, bear that warning in mind. Boss says he’s like walking Napalm.”

This peaked John’s curiosity. Considering what he had heard about his boss, it was saying quite a lot if a man who was the personification of a murderous crime lord, compared Sherlock to a volatile and inflammable acid mixture classified as a prohibited warfare weapon. 

“Didn’t know they had met?” he said.

“It’s classified. Not really for you to know.” Moran simply stated.

“Do _you_ know?”

“Of course. But I’m of higher rank. You should know what that means from your army days.”

“Then why even bother saying anything?”

“Because it looks like you might need to hear it. You seem more worked up when you’re talking about him than the Duracell Bunny from those old commercials on the telly. Just concentrate on the task at hand and if you’re unable to penetrate further and get access to Mycroft, change tactics. You should know sufficiently by now how to go about a kidnapping scenario. If this meeting doesn’t get you anywhere, its time to crank up the speed a bit. If you wait too long there’s a risk little brother is sent back to rehab eventually.”

“He hasn’t used any drugs.” John protested but Moran just kept that pitying look on his face.

“How would _you_ know?”

That was true. John didn’t know. He only assumed it was so, on account of Sherlock being cooped up inside Mycroft’s house all day.  
But what did he really know about it?  
If Sherlock was clever enough to sneak away to meet with John, maybe he did that on other occasions as well? Maybe even with other people?

That thought didn’t sit well with him at all and even if the rational part of his brain tried telling him that it might be a sobering thought to consider, as that would help him stay more detached in regards to his target, he couldn’t help but feel worried by this idea. 

Even more eagerly did he wait for Tuesday to arrive, simultaneously promising himself to not get more involved but at the same time feeling that it might be too late.

And here he was now, thinking far too inappropriate thoughts about another man’s arse while waiting for him to finish climbing out a bathroom window so he could follow him by doing the same.  
Preposterous was what this was!

“So, where are we headed this time? Another crime scene? More bodies lying about for you to deduce?”

“Oh, I wish,” Sherlock mumbled while briskly walking across the courtyard towards a ladder leading up to the roof of the building next to the church.

“Yeah, you would say that, wouldn’t you,” John couldn’t help remarking while he hurried to catch up.

Nimbly Sherlock jumped up on the ladder and started climbing it, not turning even once to see if John was keeping up.  
Before following, John threw him a glance and dryly noted that this was apparently yet another opportunity for him to ogle the other man’s behind in those very tight-fitted trousers, as they climbed. 

This climbing business continued over the next couple of houses and courtyards, down the ladder and up the next, for at least a good twenty minutes. This time John knew why at least. No cameras available.

Eventually satisfied, Sherlock made a turn and headed through a gate to end up on a small backstreet where a metal door was visible on the opposite wall, surrounded by a few garbage bins arranged in a row. The stench was not a particularly pleasant one, a combination of old leftovers and urine. 

“Seems like hanging with you always leads to the shadier parts of the city. I have no idea where we are, and I consider myself fairly familiar with London.”

“I highly doubt it,” Sherlock said in the “know it all”- fashion that tended to be his default mode. “Knowing how to find your way on the main streets of a city does not qualify you to be considered familiar with it. You’re better than a tourist but worse than a taxi driver, which is saying something considering the disadvantage they have of only being able to navigate the roads where vehicles are allowed.”

John couldn’t help but feel a bit insulted by this.

“How would you know how good I am at finding my way around London?”

“Well, for starters, we’ve only been on the move for less than half an hour and you’re already lost. That doesn’t promise a particularly good knowledge about the local area, even if we have taken the non-scenic route over a few courtyards. If you were more such an expert, you would be able to figure out where we are.”

Without waiting for an answer Sherlock headed over to the door and knocked on it firmly.

Grumbling a little while silently noting to himself that the snarky tone certainly wasn’t one of the more admirable traits Sherlock had, John joined him.  
The door was soon opened by a large man in a dirty apron and a bearded face, glaring suspiciously at them.

“Yes?”

“We would like to have a table.” 

“This is the backdoor. You can’t enter through here,” the man said grumpily.

“I don’t see why not? Better to have customers coming in through here than losing them on account of forcing them to go around the building to the main entrance. We would like a table not too close to the windows.”

This was all said with the most assured tone of voice, like there wasn’t anything unusual by coming by the back door, demanding a table for lunch. 

The man kept looking at them grumpily for a second but then caved and stepped away from the door so they could enter.

“Fine. But just this once. We can’t have people running through our kitchen like this, we’re a respectable establishment.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock drawled as he passed him, leaving the bearded man to widen his eyes in utter disbelief. 

“Wait, what did he say?” he asked John as he stepped inside as well, but John merely shrugged his shoulders as if he hadn’t heard and then followed Sherlock who was already half-way through the kitchen.

Not bothering to wait for the bearded man to seat them, Sherlock stepped up to a table by his own choosing, in a corner and far from prying eyes on the street.  
Picking up the menu while seating himself he gave it to John without even looking through it. 

“Here pick something out, it’s lunch time.”

John seated himself and took off his jacket before opening the menu.

“What are you having?” he asked as he eyed the selection of Italian courses. 

“Oh, I’m not eating,” Sherlock said, not looking at John but letting his eyes roam the half-empty restaurant instead.

“But as you just said, it’s lunch time?”

“I don’t normally eat lunch.”

“What? _Ever_?”

“Not usually, no.”

“Why ever not? That’ doesn’t sound very healthy.”

John lowered the menu to look at Sherlock with concern. 

“Digestion slows me down. Besides, eating is boring.”

John had a hard time believing what he was hearing.

“Eating is _boring_?” He put the menu down on the table, his full focus on the man in front of him. 

“I believe that’s what I said.” Sherlock was beginning to sound impatient now, as if it was John who was too slow to understand a perfectly sound argument. In his head that most likely was the case.

“Well, boring or not, food is essential to the human body. Everyone needs sustenance to function. When was the last time you ate?”

Sherlock finally looked at him now.

“I don’t remember. Last night perhaps. Or the day before. Does it matter? I’m hardly dying, am I?”

The last sentence was said with sarcasm and John frowned, not liking this one bit, but hardly in a position to reproach a grown man about his extremely irregular eating habits. 

What surprised him even more was that Mycroft either didn’t know about this lack in nourishment intake or hadn’t invented a way to force-feed his brother yet, the second option strangely enough making more sense considering it was Mycroft after all. 

Not willing to bring the mood down even further by mentioning the older brother John decided to let it go for now.

The bearded man approached them, his stained apron not exactly appetizing to look at, but choosing to ignore that detail, John ordered a Pasta á la Norma and a beer, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t suddenly decide to steal a car and demand that John took care of the driving, or something equally ridiculous that required his sobriety. 

“You’ve been here before?” he asked as they waited for his food to arrive.

“No.”

“But you seemed to know that it was a restaurant. There wasn’t a sign outside?”

“Who would feel the need to put up a sign at the back door?”

The snark was obviously back in place again, if it even left in the first place.  
John sighed.

“So how did you know then?”

“The garbage bins as well as the very distinct smell of discarded food combined with a stench of urine. What else could it be? Food on account of it being a restaurant that throws their leftovers in the bins outside, the urine because it is where the staff goes out to take a pee during busy nights. If that apron our bearded waiter and chef is any indication to what kind of establishment this is, I would wager that taking a pee in the alley would be preferable to visiting the gents.”

“Hm, _charming_ …”

“Don’t worry, the food will be alright. At least for the next two weeks. I saw a notice from the Health’s Department when we passed through the kitchen, they were here a week ago and threatened to close the place down if no improvements were made immediately. So they will try to keep the standards up until the next visit, two weeks from now. How our bearded friend figured that apron would pass muster I have no idea of, though. Could be because he’s an idiot, but the jury’s still out on that one.”

John couldn’t help but laugh despite the frankly worrying fact that he was going to eat in a restaurant where the Health’s Department was threatening to shut the place down and Sherlock had just called their waiter and the man who cooked the food, an idiot, quite loudly at that.

The threat of a smile was tugging at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth and that encouraged John even further. Despite the absurdity of the situation, this was actually very nice.

When the food arrived, John tucked in with relish while Sherlock settled for a glass of water and a comfortable silence settled between them.  
When beginning to feel full, a thought hit that had haunted John's thoughts ever since Moran’s visit. 

The idea that Sherlock might actually be well acquainted with escaping Mycroft’s surveillance, and even worse, doing this with other people, worried him. The file had indicated that Sherlock was being kept in the house more or less around the clock, but John had learned not to rely too literally on that file since Moran revealed that it was highly edited.

Trying to send out some feelers, he leaned back in his chair to take a mouthful of beer before raising the subject.

“So, on the run from Big Brother again? Do that a lot, do you?”

Sherlock raised his eye-brows slightly.

“Why would you think that?”

“You seem very adept at knowing how to avoid the cameras, so it strikes me as very surprising that you wouldn’t do this more often.”

Tilting his head now, Sherlock got that scrutinizing look that made John feel like he was being dissected. It made him break out in a small sweat and stubbornly clench his jaws, not wanting to back down from the gaze but at the same time finding it nerve-wracking, afraid that he would give away a clue to what his true intensions really were. 

“As I recall it, it was you who wanted to meet, John. I have no other reasons for staying under the radar.”

Breaking eye contact by reaching for his beer once again, John took a large gulp before nodding.

“Oh, I did want to see you. And I’m really glad you wanted to, as well. I’m just surprised at the ease with how you do all of this. Climbing ladders, sneaking across backyards and so forth.”

Sherlock didn’t reply and this was actually the first time it felt a bit strained between them. John couldn’t really figure out why that was though, and he couldn’t very well ask.

Changing the subject, trying to shrug off the feeling of unease, he leaned forward slightly and went for an amiable approach instead.

“So, how about you tell me about the dead man in the burnt-out car?”

Not really letting himself be influenced by John’s effort to lighten the mood, Sherlock still complied by telling a short version of a story that seemed like the Clift notes of something larger that he wasn’t willing to reveal. The deductions about the man being too damaged in comparison to the car, as well as the fact that the bag of drugs had been left unharmed was pretty much what he said back then and it seemed genuine enough, but he had written in his texts that it had also been confirmed to have been staged.

“How did you get it confirmed?” John asked. 

For a man who clearly liked to show off Sherlock was strangely elusive suddenly, avoiding answering the question. Instead he went for a more nonsense vague answer.

“Let’s say I deduced it in front of a source who would know about it and it was confirmed by his reaction to what I said to him.”

“That’s sounds highly irregular. How would that go about exactly?” John questioned.

Sherlock’s eyes became focused for a second.

“Well. If you take our waiter for example, who is also the owner of this establishment by the way, as well as the cook. An arrangement well suited for a place of this poor quality that hardly makes a lot of money and wouldn’t be able to pay the salary for three different people doing what he considers he can do on his own. To make ends meet he is also clearly working on the side as a burglar by the look of strange items scattered about in the restaurant. Some of them are quite valuable, hidden among other, more common items, many of them not what you would usually find in a restaurant and obviously here as a way of hiding them in plain sight until he can sell them off. Like that vase for example, it’s an antique and worth about 5 000 pounds. That’s not exactly what you would decorate a shabby third-rate lunch restaurant with, is it? If I were to point this out to our grumpy friend, he would immediately be very disgruntled, possibly even aggressive on account of us making such accusations. Then he would probably even try to explain the presence of that particular vase with some inane excuse about it being a family heir loom or some other nonsense. If I was then to point out that the painting on the wall is also worth a considerable sum, as well as that small figurine next to the bar, he would grow even angrier and threaten to throw us out. A man who has something to hide would try to distance himself from a person making these kinds of accusations, emotions like anger and violence being the most common reaction. So you see, you wouldn’t necessarily need a spoken confession to know when someone is guilty of a crime, you can simply read it on their body language and tone of voice. It might not hold up in a court room, but on the other hand, how is he going to explain away as many as nine items worth so much money, casually scattered about in here, if a police officer was to ask him about it? A police officer who could also easily see on his computer that these items were reported missing from various break ins.”

John stared at Sherlock for a second in complete bafflement, unable to say anything, before the sentence “You’re absolutely incredible, did you know that?” just tumbled out of his mouth as if on its own accord. 

Sherlock actually smiled this time, a full genuine smile and the tension between them slowly melted away.

After that, the atmosphere between them was much lighter and as they continued to talk while John ordered a cup of coffee and a Tiramisu for dessert, they both ended up laughing a couple of times and the little incessant voice inside John’s mind that accused him of losing focus on his task, was duly muffled by the overwhelming power of happiness that he was experiencing just by sitting opposite this amazing man and enjoying his company. 

It was the first true feeling of joy he had felt since returning from the war and he was going to enjoy it for as long as he had the privilege to feel the warmth of this moment spread inside of him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft reads the text betsween Sherlock and John, and comes to a decision.

The texts between Sherlock and John were deleted of course, unlike the last time, when his careless brother must have forgotten to do so after having sent one to that despicable drug dealer. Well, Mycroft had ways of retrieving things thought be permanently removed. 

Sherlock had probably counted on Mycroft never founding out about him texting John, and what angered Mycroft even further than the fact that Sherlock had gone against his specific orders behind his back, was that he might have been none the wiser unless Miss Bunton had said that remark about Sherlock and John being able to communicate with each other.

While waiting for the Intelligence Team to retrieve the texts, Mycroft was positively seething, his mind conjuring up all kinds of images of what exactly John was doing to his brother right this minute.

He didn’t know if the texts, when revealing the nature of their relationship, was a blessing or a curse, because he wasn't sure if he could handle a situation similar to the one involving Victor Trevor all over again, but on the other hand, ignorance was somehow even worse, his mind willingly supplying him with detailed scenarios he couldn’t stomach without the need to violently lash out. 

There was also the very likely probability that John was some sort of drug dealer, and that idea certainly did nothing to sooth Mycroft's inner turmoil, even if it was perhaps slightly preferable to Sherlock having found himself a new lover.

Whatever the outcome, Mycroft felt utterly betrayed as he thought about himself lying in his own bed, deeply asleep, content with having his brother lying next to him, unaware that said brother had apparently no issues with deceiving him. Not only by breaking into Mycroft’s phone, but also by secretly texting with a man Mycroft had distinctly forbidden him to have any contact with. 

The whole thing made him question what kind of game his brother was plying this time, and worse, if hen even cared about Mycroft at all.  
It was a constant worry he carried with him and the very source to a lot of their issues was his deeply rooted fear that Sherlock would one day leave him and actually never come back. 

Miss Bunton had not been in touch, so she had not yet found the two escapees, but right now that worked in Mycroft's favour. He wasn’t sure he would be able to face his brother right now, or that lashing with the belt might pale in comparison to what he was going to do to him as punishment. 

He had remained in his office after the meeting with the Prime Minister, The Foreign Secretary, The Chief of MI6 and the man from the Russian Federal Security Service ended , the topic having been dealt with as well as it could, considering the extremely delicate reason for them all to be assembled in the same room. Mycroft had forced his mind back to the matter at hand after his phone call with Miss Bunton, personifying the Ice Man persona he was so famous for cultivating, and he had certainly lived up to his moniker by the time the meeting was over. At least two of the other men in the room had not been able to look him in the eye afterwards, but quietly scuttling out the door with harried looks on their faces.

Lunch had been eaten by the desk in his own office, while waiting for Miss Bunton to call or the Intelligence Team to fill him in on the contents of the texts, whatever came first.

Thirty minutes past two, Miss Bunton was the winner, or loser depending on how you looked at it, when she made her final call to Mycroft, reporting that Sherlock, as well as John, had been spotted, no longer together, but not far from each other either, which indicated that they had just separated minutes ago. 

Sherlock was currently walking down Westbourne Park Road that had cameras at all corners and was making no efforts to hide from them, while John had headed down the West Park subway station, also visible, but clearly more in a hurry to get away from wherever their meeting spot had been.

“Shall we retrieve your brother, Sir?”

“No, let him walk back by foot. But shadow him and if he isn’t headed home after all, then you can pick him up. I’ll meet up with him when I get the chance.”

“Will that be all, Sir?”

There was a finality to her words and who could blame her, this was the end of her career after all. Mycroft was unable to feel sympathy for her plight though and curtly replied that it was indeed all and ended the call.

Fifteen minutes later he finally received a printed document of the retrieved texts between his brother and John.  
The first one was dated from Saturday, at 00:54 and contact had been initiated by Sherlock. 

Mycroft remembered that evening very well.  
They had not indulged in their usual routine of punishment and repentance that Sherlock seemed to favour as a sexual activity. It was also something Mycroft found great pleasure in, especially when his brother was particularly provocative leading up to the actual act. But no, this had been one of those rare occasions when they had taken pleasure in what Sherlock dryly called “regular sex” and soon after, Mycroft had fallen asleep, content but as usual, spent by the physical activity of love making, whether it be the more common variety or the darker one. 

He did remember Sherlock lying next to him when falling asleep and he had also been there in the morning, so he must have sneaked out of the bed almost an hour after Mycroft had fallen asleep and retrieved the phone, texted John and then climbed back inside as if nothing had happened, putting the phone back in its place before doing so. 

The sting of this deceitful act felt like a hornet had punctured him viciously with its stinger, venom seeping through his bloodstream, for a second making him numb with pain. Then anger roused him once more, forcing him to focus at the situation he had in front of him. 

Mycroft was well aware of his brother’s irregular sleeping habits, but the situation had been like that since Sherlock was a little boy and it was something they had just come to accept, almost like his equally deplorable eating habits. Those he could at least control a little. If suitably enticed, Sherlock could be tricked into eating, but Mycroft had more or less accepted that when it came to eating they were as far apart as imaginable and neither of them had a particularly healthy relationship with food. The same could be said for their sleeping habits. Where Mycroft often succumbed to sleep quite easily, especially after having engaged in some sort of physical activity prior to bedtime, Sherlock could easily stay awake for several nights in a row, his energy levels working against him, making it impossible for him to get some well-needed rest. It had bothered Mycroft over the years of course, but never on account of something like this.

After having read the texts he was unsure of what to really make of them though. Without having the actual tone behind the words, it was much more difficult to tell what the intent was all about.  
There was nothing in them that indicated anything sexual or romantic going on between his brother and John. The content was more like amiable banter which was surprising since Sherlock in general wasn’t amiable to people. 

The crime scene that was referred to, was most probably that of the drug dealer Mycroft had taken care of a little while ago, and it surprised him that Sherlock had taken John with him to go see it.  
If he hadn't known his brother as well as he did, Mycroft would have guessed that it could have had some sort of cathartic value to see the badly burnt man who had used to be a drug dealer Sherlock had preferred to employ in the past and who he apparently had no qualms about staying in touch with, despite the many tours to rehab.  
To anyone else it could have served as a lesson or at least lead to some soul searching about the consequences of going behind Mycroft’s back. But Mycroft knew Sherlock too well to know that he had probably been more fascinated by the scenario, than frightened or feeling suitable chastised by his actions.

Beyond John wanting to meet and Sherlock eventually complying by coming up with the terms, there wasn’t much else in the contents of the texts. There was a hint of John perhaps being overly eager to meet with his brother, considering the bluntness of his question, but it didn’t automatically indicate any romantic feeling between them. That was something of a relief, considering what Mycroft’s own mind had conjured up regarding intimate scenarios between his brother and this man. 

There was also nothing to indicate any usage or exchange of drugs. 

Mycroft had been genuinely afraid to find something far worse in the texts and the result was in reality nothing of the sort. 

It didn’t change the fact that Sherlock had acted against Mycroft’s orders but at least he could keep his head clear when thinking about his next step, untroubled by jealous fantasies clouding his judgement. 

He knew that he needed to find out who this man was and luckily his team had managed to trace the number from which his texts had been sent so it didn’t take him long to get further details.

The phone was listed on a John Watson. A British citizen who was a former army doctor and Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, now back in Britain again after seven years abroad. Officially he was unemployed but also listed as living in Hammersmith which was a fairly decent neighbourhood where he couldn’t have gotten a flat while being on an allowance or an army pension. Parents deceased and only one sibling. A sister, Harriet Watson, not currently living in London but in their hometown of Chelmsford. John was not married or living with a partner. Sexual orientation unknown. Financial status unknown.  
Well, this was certainly becoming more and more intriguing by the minute. 

Deciding that it was time to actually meet the man his brother had started to develop some sort of connection with, Mycroft buzzed the intercom for his PA to come and help him make the necessary arrangements.

\---------

Sherlock arrived at Holland Park to after a rather brisk walk he had expected to be interrupted, but when noticing it wasn’t going to happen, had actually enjoyed.

He almost never had the luxury to walk around London on his own anymore and especially not without the constant presence of Mycroft's agents shadowing him and the cameras observing his every move. When now experiencing this unexpected liberty, he was going to fully enjoy it. 

When he had been living with Victor there had been occasional walks like these, but obviously not without Mycroft keeping track of their movements, despite Sherlock making it abundantly clear that his interference was not appreciated. 

Mycroft had retaliated eventually, in full force and Sherlock didn’t know if he would ever be able to fully forgive him for it, although time and other incidents had both faded the memory, as well as mellowed his anger. There was no point in clinging on to the past. Victor was gone and Sherlock was here with Mycroft, and there wasn’t much he could do about the situation. 

He and Mycroft had found their way back to each other eventually, but considering how fraught it still was sometimes, full of old resentments and hidden agendas, it was occasionally difficult to enjoy the situation, even if they loved each other. Sherlock felt very limited in his existence as Mycroft’s love interest, locked up in the house except for the rare outing to a restaurant or a concert, always under his brother’s watchful eye. 

To experience a simple walk like this, on his own, no presence of black cars following him around, free to enjoy the surroundings and the fresh air, as well as choosing his own way home, was exhilarating in a way he hadn’t counted on feeling, despite longing for exactly this ability to make his own decisions. 

Mycroft had the means to keep their arrangement going for as long as he wanted and it was likely to last for many years to come, perhaps even forever. That notion was often the reason for Sherlock trying to break the monotonous circle of his existence by running away or fleeing the situation with the help of drugs. At lest then, something was happening.

Strangely enough, he hadn't felt that craving for the past couple of weeks.

There had been something invigorating about spending the afternoon with John. Sherlock had not yet figured out what the man really wanted from him, it had to be more than just a fool with love on his mind, even if Sherlock could sense that John had some thinly hidden interest in him. 

But apart from the mystery surrounding John, it had felt nice to be in his company. Mycroft would probably sneer, with a tone of disdain, that it was on account of John being so impressed by Sherlock and vocally showing it with compliments regarding things Sherlock normally never received any praise for.  
When he had done deductions back in school, people had always been angry with him for revealing things they had preferred to have kept hidden. Mycroft thought of his gifts as being childish and besides, he was able to do them very well on his own, once being the one who taught his little brother the basics of deducing people in the first place.  
And Victor…well, he had thought of Sherlock’s deductions as an endearing quirk his boyfriend had, but had not been particularly interested in hearing them, more focused as he was on getting inside Sherlock’s pants.

It was strange to consider, because it almost never happened, but Sherlock had enjoyed the company of John simply because it had felt nice, whatever the reasons behind it. 

Sure, he would still try getting to the bottom of why John sought out his company, but for now he was going to simply enjoy the attention.

As he entered the house in Holland Park it was empty, apart from the housekeeper moving about upstairs. It was a little unexpected that Mycroft hadn’t sent a car to pick him up when discovering that Sherlock had disappeared after the NA meeting. At least it should have happened as soon as he had entered the main road where he was visible to the cameras. 

He was unable to decide if Mycroft’s lack of action was a worrying fact or not, but at the same time, he couldn’t be bothered to think about the reason behind it. Sometimes it was simply too exhausting to try seeing any reason behind his older brother’s way of thinking.

The rest of the afternoon he lounged about in the house, tried reading for a while and then did some experiments in the part of the cellar where he was allowed to do things that usually caused either terrible smells or risked putting furniture on fire. He was fairly free to conduct whatever experiments he wanted as long as he couldn’t produce any actual drugs or do something that was ethically unsuitable. Once having asked for some human tissue to perform an experiment on, he had curtly been denied by his brother, but he was still able to conduct extensive studies in most of the fields he found fascinating, such as research into different types of tobacco ash, the destinct variety of perfume brands and analysing as many as 160 different cyphers. 

Sherlock had, as a boy, found interest in crime solving and had at some point, before things started going downhill on a private level, contemplated what he could do to turn that interest into something he actually could do for a living. That interest had never really disappeared and he still enjoyed the thrill he felt when reading or hearing about a particularly intricate crime, even more so if he was able to see a possible solution or clue behind it, that the police was clearly not seeing.  
His thoughts on the law enforcement in general, and the police force in particular, weren’t very positive, his impressions of them growing even more biased as he grew older and saw how very limited these institutions really were, susceptible to manipulations and straight out idiocy.  
Mycroft had told him how you could more or less do whatever you wanted if you had the inclination, resources and intelligence to do it. The fact that Mycroft himself treated the world as his own personal chess board was considerable proof of that. 

The clock turned six without any signs of his brother showing up and Sherlock wondered if he was perhaps holed up at work. Mycroft wasn’t always punctual, and occasionally he wasn't home in time for dinner at seven.  
Not that it bothered Sherlock much. It just meant that he wouldn’t have to endure the tiresome lecture about his eating habits. They could usually be solved by quipping some dig about Mycroft’s ever-expanding waistline, but sometimes not even that particular trick worked and Mycroft could drone on for an eternity about the need for Sherlock to look better after himself and his bodily needs.  
It was beyond boring and something Sherlock positively hated being forced to hear. When it finally became particularly excruciating to listen to, he simply retreated inside his own head and tuned out the world around him. 

Bent over his microscope, he was disturbed by a knock on the door and then the housekeeper popping her head inside to inform him that it was time for dinner.

“Is my brother home?”

“Yes. He arrived just a little while ago and he is expecting you in the dining room.”

Sherlock frowned. He usually heard when Mycroft came home, or more often, his brother sought him out.  
Prerhaps he was in a foul mood and it was going to be one of _those_ nights….

He probably had some chosen words to air regarding Sherlock's disappearance this afternoon.

“Fine,” he grudgingly said and rose from where he had been seated. “I’ll be there in a second. Tell him that if he feels his hunger being beyond control, he can feel free to tug in before my arrival.”

She didn’t reply to this and they both knew she would not be conveying that particular message to Mycroft, but Sherlock still never could resist voicing his irritation at being interrupted on account of what he considered pointless activities such as eating or sleeping. 

Making no hurry to ascend the stairs from the room in the cellar, Sherlock carefully put his equipment away, scribbled down some notes and washed his hands before finally making his way to the dining room. Mentally preparing for whatever was waiting for him on the other side of the door in the form of whatever mood his brother had decided to be in tonight, he took a deep breath before turning the handle. 

But whatever he had expected to see, it certainly wasn’t this.

Seated in his usual place at the head of the table was Mycroft, fingers steepled in front of him, a stony expression on his face.

And next to him, on his left, was John, sitting with his back straight, jaws clenched and his head turning slowly as Sherlock opened the door.

Before Sherlock had the chance to open his mouth to express whatever shock he was feeling when faced with this scenario, Mycroft beat him to it.

“Ah, Sherlock. How good of you to join us without forcing us to wait too long. As you can see, we have a guest tonight who is, I’m sure, just as eager to see you as I am. So why don’t you seat yourself and let the dinner begin. I'm quite certain we have much to talk about.”

\--------

Earlier that afternoon John had managed to make it almost all the way home, leaving the tube station to swing by the shops for a quick pick up of milk and some eggs for breakfast, when a black car pulled up next to him on the curb. A glance confirmed it to be the same one Mycroft had arrived in, the last time John had been meeting with Sherlock.

His stomach dropped for a second as he wondered what would happen next. He wasn’t afraid of Mycroft per se, but he was worried that whatever happened next could jeopardise everything he had built up so far. If Mycroft had arrived to tell him off for spending time with his brother it would be difficult for John to just take it without the temptation to talk back, one part of him had no wish whatsoever to back down from being with Sherlock, another part reminded him to think of the mission first and foremost and try not to make an enemy out of Mycroft Holmes. 

Arguing with a man who was most likely used to getting what he wanted, was not a good idea if you wanted to get in his good books. Not that John nurtured any illusions about being on anyone’s good books at the moment. Moran was displeased with the mission taking so long and Mycroft didn’t seem particularly happy about John constantly sneaking away with his brother. And who knew what Sherlock felt? 

They had at least departed on good terms but Sherlock hadn’t said a word about meeting up with John again and that had been a bit disappointing. 

The door to the driver’s seat was opened while John remained on the sidewalk, awaiting further developments. The large bodyguard/driver he had seen before, stepped out and faced him.

“Dr Watson?”

A spark of worry went through John.  
How did this man know John's full name, not to mention his title?  
Had his cover been blown somehow? Had Mycroft figured something out?

Hesitantly he replied with a yes and the larger man went over to the door on the passenger side.

“Get in.”

Feelings his hackles rise immediately, John dug his feet more firmly into the ground. It always galled him when people just barked out orders, not a "please" or "thank you" in sight, and as the height of the other man really made him aware of his own, shorter stature, it being something of a sensitive issue, he felt even more inclined to put up some resistance.  
This giant could very well ask him nicely if he wanted him to comply.

“Excuse me?” he said, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head forward a bit, as if he hadn’t heard correctly, waiting for the uttered “please” at least.

But Mr Muscle didn’t take the hint.

”You’re expected.”

John tried to give an incredulous laugh but inside, his heart was beginning to pick away in a stress-induced rhythm, spiked with the irritation he was feeling over being ordered about like an inferior.  
Who did this man, or his employer more likely, think John was? Just a nobody, willing to be told what to do? Despite the inner voice now becoming even more insistent on him not ruining things for himself regarding the mission, he couldn’t help but make it at least a little more difficult for them. 

“I don’t just hop into cars with strangers. Who wants to see me?”

The chauffeur didn’t reply, merely remained by the door, now holding it up for John to jump in.

John peered inside. 

Mycroft wasn’t there. It was actually empty. 

Well, that was unexpected. 

“And if I refuse?” he tried, his bafflement over this whole situation finally winning over his anger about being told what to do by a giant in a stupid driver’s uniform, but the chauffeur just remained quietly waiting for him. 

John wondered what would happen if he simply refused and tried walking away.  
Would the driver still remain immobile or would he try to physically force him into the car? 

With a sight he realised that he had perhaps spent too much time with Sherlock if he was now conjuring up a possible kidnapping scenario when in reality it was probably just Mycroft who wanted to have a little talk. Sherlock's inclination to make things more exciting was most likely rubbing off on him.

Thinking it over one last time, John finally caved and did as he was told. 

Maybe this would get him closer to achieving his goal? But if it did, what would Sherlock say when finding out that John had merely sought him out on account of getting closer to Mycroft?  
That thought did no longer sit that well with him as it had initially. Could he somehow achieve his mission and steal information from Mycroft without Sherlock figuring it out? 

If there was a way to do that, he would have to find it, because he wasn’t willing to part with Sherlock just yet. 

As he had seated himself, the car drove off and continued in slow pace through the streets, John looking out through the tinted windows as people rushed by, probably on their way home after work, the obligatory group of tourists scattering about and the normal Tuesday afternoon in London being put on display in front of him, as his mind was occupied with thinking about what would happen next. 

There was a partition between him and the driver and despite pushing the intercom button it didn’t seem to get him through, so he had no opportunity to ask where they were headed. Not that John thought that the other man would answer him if he did ask. He seemed like one of those goons in a Bond film who did everything their boss told them to do, never thinking a single independant thought of their own, just providing the muscle power or driving skills.

John noticed after a while that they were headed towards the central part of London and eventually they arrived at Whitehall, stopping outside one of the official buildings that towered over them. 

He had passed this area once or twice but never really having had any business in this part of town, therefore not being very familiar with its buildings and the layout. 

He wondered if he was supposed to get out and if so, what next? 

The chauffeur remained seated though, so he stayed put as well.

After a 45-minute wait he was beginning to get restless and tried the intercom once more, but without any luck. He then tried the doors instead, but sensing even before knowing for sure, they were of course locked.

Was this some sort of kidnapping scenario after all?

He was just about to start banging on the partition to force the driver to give him some attention and answer his questions, when the door next to him opened and Mycroft, without a word, slid inside.

It was like being in the presence of someone John had existed close to in theory, but not having had the chance to be in the actual presence of. 

When finally being this close to the man who was his target, it was almost daunting. 

There was something about Mycroft Holmes that made you become slightly uncomfortable, as if being too close to a viper who could lash out at any second and just stick it’s fangs into you. His whole persona was very daunting in a way John couldn’t put his finger on, despite Mycroft in reality just looking like an ordinary, but better dressed, bureaucrat. 

Maybe it was the look in his eyes that did it, the way they looked at you with a cold and calculating stare, the way someone looks at a beetle they are about to crush beneath the sole of their shoe. A threat was hanging in the air between them, for reasons unknown to John. It had been there last time as well, in Mycroft's eyes when he had looked at John from the back of the car.

This time Mycroft didn’t look at him though. He just seated himself on the opposite side of the seat, one leg crossed over the other, a briefcase placed between them as if a barrier. The car started moving again and they were off.

At first, this outcome rendered John speechless. He was thrown by the whole situation and unsure of what to do.  
But as a good minute or two had passed without Mycroft saying anything, he took matters into his own hands.

“Mr Holmes?”

Without turning his head Mycroft replied with a drawled yes, as if surprised and also bothered that John dared to speak.

“Ehm, would you mind telling me what’s going on here? Where are we headed?”

“We are heading for dinner.” 

Well, that wasn’t the reply he had expected. 

Was it some sort of code? 

Mycroft was a member of a secret society after all and had the power to control the CCTV-system among many other things, of course he would know how to secretly conduct a kidnapping if he wanted to, making it seem like an ordinary dinner invitation.

“Alright,” John said, his mind still buzzing with possible scenarios, “but what does that mean?”

“ Well, a dinner usually indicates some intake of food, although my brother might have a different view on the subject. I thought it timely that we all finally met under more civilized circumstances than conversing through a car window, giving me the opportunity to get better acquainted with the man my brother has begun spending his time with on an irregular basis. If that is to become a more regular occurrence, I think it is due time for you and me to meet as well, wouldn’t you say, Dr Watson?”

There was a hint of something calculating in his voice but the words still very polite and non-threatening, had anyone else said them, John wouldn’t have any problems believing the intent behind them. 

“This is a simple, if perhaps poorly conducted, invitation to join us for dinner. I for one, am very much looking forward to hear all about who you are, Dr Watson.”

With that he opened up his briefcase and pulled out some documents.

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to before we reach our destination. There is some issue with traffic at this hour so it might take a little while, so lean back and relax, enjoy the limited scenery provided from the back seat of a car and stop worrying. Dinner will be soon enough and I ‘m sure my brother will be utterly pleased to see you.”

John felt tempted to point out that he wasn’t worried at all, but decided against it, not sure if he could actually pull off vocalising such a lie. Instead he did as he was told and turned to face the window, spending the rest of the journey tensly looking out through it.

As suspected, the destination was the house in Holland Park and despite feeling that an opportunity to do the job he was actually hired to do, was finally presenting itself, he couldn’t help but feel an uncomfortable lump form in his stomach as he got out of the car.

He looked at the house, taking in the feeling of finally being allowed inside.

Mycroft stepped up next to him, looking at the house as well.

“Admiring the view, Dr Watson?”

John didn’t know what to say so he mumbled something inconclusive and a grimace resembling a false grin spread over Mycroft’s features, like a shark scenting the presence of prey. 

“You have seen it before though, have you not?”

John turned to look at him, brows frowned.

"I'm sorry?"

Mycroft nodded towards the entrance and then began walking towards it, opening up the gate so they could both enter the premises.

“Security camera overlooking the street outside, built-in above the door. Not perhaps visible to the unobservant visitor, but that is rather the point isn’t it? No benefit in showing off where the surveillance equipment is located, is there?”

With that he opened the door and entered, leaving John staring at his retreating back with his heart in his throat. 

“Do come in, Dr Watson. Dinner is served.” He could hear Mycroft’s voice from inside the house and hesitantly he stepped forward, unsure of what else he could do. He had no idea what exactly Mycroft knew, but he had the sinking sensation of things having gone belly up and if there was ever going to be an opportunity for him to at least try to finish his task, this was it.  
If things turned ugly, he wasn’t sure if he could count on any support from Sherlock, it all depended on what Mycroft would tell him, but luckily John had his phone and a fairly strong left hook, so if worse came to worst, he could at least try phoning Moran and get help if needed.

It would completely ruin everything he had been trying to achieve of course and Sherlock would most likely never be heard of again, but with that in mind, he still stepped inside and closed the door resolutely behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very awkward dinner begins...

John had been forced to endure the most excruciating fifteen minutes of his life, sitting next to Mycroft waiting for Sherlock to show up, Mycroft looking at him with the same look his little brother had when in deduction mode. They weren’t evenly remotely similar in appearance otherwise, but that vivisection they both performed with their eyes told any ignorant outsider that they were related somehow.

He wondered if he should come up with a lie about getting caught on camera outside their house that day when he had accepted the mission, hours before actually meeting Sherlock, outside the concert hall. He could see how that would seem suspicious if put in context, but if questioned about it he would deny everything.  
It had been purely incidental.  
He couldn’t remember if he had actually looked at the house or merely glanced at it through the corner of his eye, but hopefully he hadn’t displayed any obvious interest in it.

“I am told that you spent the afternoon with my brother yet again, today. He’s never told me what it is that you two do when you meet up. Apart from the obvious game of staying out of view from the surveillance cameras of course, something he hasn’t vocally informed me of, but which has been evident none the less.”

John turned to look at Mycroft.

“I’m not sure I could tell you, even if I wanted to. It’s difficult to explain,” he answered vaguely, not at all willing to share for some reason, actually regretting having done so with Moran. It had begun to feel like a private thing between him and Sherlock, and it wasn’t anyone else’s business what they did when they were alone.

Mycroft continued to look at him with that razor-sharp gaze, as if weighing every little detail carefully before continuing to the next.

“So much about this situation seems to be. I’m afraid I still haven’t even been informed of how the two of you met?”

Annoyed by being interrogated like this, John automatically snapped back, before forcing himself to reign his temper.

“I seem to recall you already asking that question the last time we met.”

A gleam of coldness passed Mycroft’s eyes, gone in a second, to be replaced by polite indifference once more.

“As I recall, I never received a proper answer to it.”

“And that might tell you, as I believe Sherlock informed you specifically back then, is because it’s of no concern to anyone else where we met.”

Mycroft’s lips pursed churlishly.

“I don’t know how well you think yourself acquainted with Sherlock after just a few random meetings, but let me tell you, if you knew what I do, you would understand my need to know.”

John refused to back down, always having had trouble with being ordered about, despite seven years in the army.

“And despite that information, I am not going to tell you,” he said tensely.

They stared at each other, locking eyes, before Mycroft’s face froze and he turned it towards the door, which a second later was opened, Sherlock entering, an insolent scowl on his features at first, but when seeing who was sitting at the table, immediately turned to bewilderment.

Mycroft must have heard him because without missing a beat, depriving his brother from voicing said bewilderment, he made one of his pompous declarations about them all having much to talk about and dinner should commence now that everyone was here. 

John met Sherlock’s eyes and he saw something undefinable in them, curiosity perhaps, mixed with suspicion and then something else, almost dark, that John couldn’t decipher. 

Giving a histrionic eye-roll and a deep sigh, Sherlock sauntered over to his seat on Mycroft’s right side, opposite John. 

They had separated just a couple of hours ago but it was still electrifying to see him again, that flash of excitement running through John that he had now grown accustomed to feeling whenever seeing or even thinking about Sherlock. He was well aware that it was a textbook example of a what a crush felt like, but at this exact moment is was simply nice to see him on account of a familiar face in this otherwise rather absurd situation where he didn’t know what would happen next.

“So, _this_ is why I never heard from you today?” Sherlock said, looking at Mycroft.

“I wasn’t aware that you craved my company?”

Sherlock snorted but didn’t say anything further. 

So far, he hadn’t said a word to John and beyond the initial exchange of looks, he wasn’t even acknowledging his presence, which was frankly a little disappointing.

The housekeeper came and presented them with seared Porterhouse steak along with roasted potato wedges, garlic butter and cream sauce, a very hearty meal, supplemented with a nice bottle of red wine. 

Having eaten the pasta as well as a dessert, not too many hours ago, John wondered how he was going to be able to eat anything more right now, but politely helped himself to a medium portion of the food, ingrained in his backbone when growing up, that if offered food, you better gladly accept it. 

Sherlock had apparently not been taught that particular lesson as he merely took two measly wedges and the smallest of slices from the Porterhouse steak, foregoing both garlic butter as well as the sauce.

The only one at the table with a clear appetite was Mycroft who filled his plate with a large portion of everything and then turned to his brother who had the sauce boat untouched in front of him. 

“You should try the cream sauce, Sherlock. It complements the meat to perfection.”

“There is approximately 1080 calories in that sauce boat alone,”

“That’s certainly not going to do _you_ any harm, little brother.”

“No, but it’s going to wreak havoc _to your_ diet.”

“Indulging occasionally can do no harm. Here, you can get a taste from me.”

There was something in the tone Mycroft used that made John narrow his eyes and look at him more intently.  
John and Sherlock had enjoyed the occasional banter, lastly this very afternoon, but this was something completely different. There was a hint of something that didn’t sit right with him when hearing it, not when the persons speaking were brothers. Between a couple perhaps, he could’ve heard his own mother talking to his father about watching the figure, but in this scenario, between these two? 

What made him widen his eyes in even more bafflement a second later, was Mycroft taking a spoon that was probably laid out for dessert, dipping it in the ample portion of sauce on his plate and then reaching it towards his brother’s mouth.

What the bloody hell was going on here?

John turned to look at Sherlock, about to open his mouth to protest on behalf of his newfound friend, when Sherlock, instead of doing the expected, like declining the offer with a snort or even ignoring the gesture all together, actually contemplated the spoon with that feline gaze he had when something had caught his interest.  
And then, to make sure than nothing more could possibly shock John even further this evening, he parted his lips and took the spoon in his mouth, still firmly in Mycroft’s hand, the way a parent would feed a child, but with much more intimacy.  
They made the gesture look positively suggestive and John couldn’t help but balk at this.

“Good?” Mycroft asked, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s mouth, the moment lasting longer than strictly necessary.

“Adequate,” Sherlock answered after the spoon had been lowered and returned to the side of Mycroft’s plate. 

Felling very uncomfortable, as well as out of his element, John turned his attention to the food in front of him instead, chewing grimly, feeling strangely betrayed by the brothers’ behaviour.  
When risking a glance in Mycroft's direction he could see him looking back over the rim of his wine glass, a smile of triumph playing on his lips.  
John quickly darted his eyes and continued to chew while staring down at his plate, the food tasting like ash in his mouth and his stomach clenching uncomfortably.

After a time of silence, Sherlock demonstratively not eating anything, Mycroft instead eating far too much and John continually chewing without being able to swallow, Mycroft broke the silence finally, raising his glass, this time in a saluting gesture, looking very pleased with himself.

“I feel like we might have ended up on the wrong foot… _John_ , was it? I suggest we toast to new beginnings and more favourable continuations. You must forgive me my previous misgivings, but you see, my brother so rarely associates with anyone, even less so for more times than once. I’m afraid it caught me a bit by surprise, but I do hope we can smooth out whatever ruffled feathers that might have occurred.”

Sherlock tilted his head to look at his brother, as if thinking: _really_? 

But John decided that if he was going to be stuck between these two for the rest of the evening he might as well play along. It would certainly make it easier for him to be on seemingly good turns with Mycroft if he was going to get any snooping done later. 

So raising his glass in turn, he put on a shit-eating grin and offered his own salutations.

“Certainly. I’ll drink to that. Turning over a new leaf and all that. Cheers! Sherlock?”

He turned to face Sherlock with his expectantly raised glass, indicating with a glance that he should do the same. 

With a deep sigh and in a nonchalantly careless hand movement Sherlock raised his glass to offer a falsely cheerful greeting, first to John, then to Mycroft, but unlike the others who took a sip, he put the glass down on the table with a soft thud instead, untouched. 

“You must forgive my brother’s sourly disposition. He isn’t used to these kinds of social gatherings and is poorly lacking in both etiquette and social manners. Could be the reason why he never associates with anyone, actually. He was a hassle growing up, incorrigible really,” Mycroft said, picking up his cutlery to continue his meal.

“I can imagine,” John offered and earned himself a glare from Sherlock, while Mycroft smiled politely in a way that didn’t the reach his eyes. At least the calculating mask was gone for now.

\-----------

Mycroft tucked into his second helping shortly after John's toast.

He was feeling insatiable this evening. The way Sherlock had accepted his proffered peace offering had greatly satisfied him and he was feeling generous at the moment, indulging in lulling that stupid man to his left into a false sense of safety.  
John Watson was not as stupid as he looked but he was no strategist either and Mycroft had plenty of time to eviscerate him later during the evening.

Dabbing his lips with his napkin he turned to his guest with a polite look on his face, going for his falsified version of someone to confide in.

“So, if I may ask, what is it you do for a living?”

To this question he noted that Sherlock actually raised his head as well, as if curious about the answer too, instead of, up until now, having reverted back into himself mostly.

“I was in the army for a couple of years, served as a doctor as well a captain. I returned here a little over a year ago.” John answered automatically, as if used to give this standard phrase when asked this particular question, and so far he was speaking the truth. Mycroft suspected that when John started to tread uncharted waters, the tone of voice would sound very different indeed.

“And what sort of work do you do now that you are back?”

John took a huge gulp of his wine before replying, a sure sign of him being hesitant now.

“I’m afraid I haven’t found employment yet. Certain circumstances has demanded more time than initially expected and well…I haven’t found anything suitable.”

“That’s a pity,” Mycroft offered, feeling anything but pity for the man sitting next to him. “Sherlock here, has also had difficulty finding his place in the world.” 

From the corner of his eyes he could see Sherlock flinch at this, but Mycroft wasn’t, despite the gesture with the spoon earlier, letting his brother off the hook that easily. He had after all both lied to and deceived Mycroft plenty recently, and sitting through this hell of a dinner wasn’t even going to begin covering the tab Mycroft had visualised his brother paying for his transgressions.

Sherlock obviously didn’t see it that way, as he immediately hissed: “ _Mycroft…_ ” in a warning tone.

“Oh, pardon my indiscretion, Sherlock, I wasn’t aware that you hadn’t told your new friend about your struggles. I figured it to be something you had perhaps bonded over,” Mycroft offered in his most insincere version of a concerned voice. 

“We don’t talk about things like that” Sherlock replied cuttingly, and Mycroft raised his eyebrows in faux surprise.

“Then what do you talk about?”

As Sherlock refused to answer Mycroft turned to John instead, who looked uncomfortable. This actually was a question Mycroft wanted the answer to, so he wasn’t willing to let it go, keeping his eyes on John until he finally relented.

“Well, he took me to a small Italian restaurant this afternoon and we found out that the chef and owner of the place was actually a burglar.”

A silence fell over the table, Mycroft frankly surprised by this very unexpected answer. 

What baffled him even more was that Sherlock and John simultaneously burst out laughing a second later, looking at each other across the table and pure joy being visible in their features. 

A stab of jealousy immediately pierced him and bewildered about this very uncharacteristic reaction from his brother, he was temporarily unsure of what to make of this.

Despite having read the texts between them and found nothing incriminating, this joint gesture of merriment was quite alarming, as it suggested an intimacy he hadn’t been prepared for. Maybe they were closer than he had been led to believe?  
Considering the fact that Sherlock wasn’t a man who usually burst out laughing that often, it clearly indicated a deeper bond than he had realised.

Trying to regain his composure, he plastered on a smile and turned to them both this time:

“And how we you able to figure that out? Did my brother perhaps do his usual small deductions?”

The smile on Sherlock’s lips immediately died. 

This dig had cut him where Mycroft had wanted it to and he took a content bite of the now lukewarm steak, ignoring the texture that was now being a little rubbery after having been lying untouched on his plate for a while. 

To his dismay, John still had his smile fixed over his features though, looking with warmth in his eyes at his brother.

“He did indeed, and he was bloody amazing while doing it. I don’t know how he does it quite honestly.”

There was evident pride in John’s voice and Mycroft hated him for sounding like that while talking about _his_ brother.  
He could see why Sherlock liked this man, he was offering compliments like one would offer sweets to a child, it was done gladly and appreciated even more by the receiver. 

Sherlock actually looked pleased now.

Mycroft couldn’t stand it.

“Well, it’s not that complicated really. I taught him that, you know. It’s only a question of paying attention to details really. A good trick, I admit, but hardly usable in everyday life. I’m afraid my brother indulges in far too many fantasies sometimes. Did he tell you that he wanted to solve crimes, growing up?”

Playing down Sherlock’s talents did nothing to deter John’s enthusiasm unfortunately as he continued in the same pleased vein.

“Well, he would be very good at that, I think. I for one, would hire him on the spot after what he has shown me regarding his talents, “he offered, and Sherlock actually looked almost grateful, a look Mycroft had until then not known his brother capable of doing.  
He felt the wish to churn his teeth at this open display of affection, it was positively nauseating to watch. 

“What talents would that be?” he asked instead, trying to remain calm, but with a hint of disdain in his voice.

“Oh, many. He seems to know London like the back of his hand, he took me on quite the journey through backstreets and over roof tops…”

“Sounds highly inappropriate and unsafe,” Mycroft intercepted but was ignored by John who continued as if not interrupted. A glint in his eye and the determination in his jaw suggested that John knew this was irritating Mycroft to no end and therefore was highly satisfactory to play out. 

“…he has impressed me on several occasions with his deductive skills and he seems to have a genuine interest and knowledge in crime scenes and criminals, at least those he has shown me.”

Mycroft turned to face his brother instead, tired of watching that ape of a man trying to provoke him.

“How quaint. You seem to have acquired yourself a fan, Sherlock. I bet that does wonders to the ego, having someone around who can applaud your every move. I wish I had one of those that I could take with me to work and use whenever I needed a good cheering up.”

This time he didn’t have the time to enjoy the result of his jabbing, because John had clearly decided that he wasn’t going to let Sherlock sit there and squirm under his brother’s thinly-veiled insults, so he immediately cut in.

“Yes, what exactly is it that you do for a living? I’ve been meaning to ask. Sherlock doesn’t talk that much about you, so the subject has never been raised.”

Mycroft finally wiped away his plastered-on smile. 

John Watson was clearly of sterner stuff than he had anticipated.  
Or perhaps he was simply stupid. At least he was apparently very stubborn, and Mycroft immediately saw the bad influence of someone like that on his brother. 

Before he had the chance to give his usual vague answer he always offered when asked this particular question, Sherlock beat him to it.

“Oh, that might actually be the most intelligently uttered sentence at this table tonight. What Mycroft does for a living truly is the million-pound question. Looking at him you would surely guess something boring and unimaginative, an accountant perhaps, or something to do with taxes. But don’t let his conceited exterior fool you, however hard it is to see past that smug face and stuffy three-piece suit. He’s probably the most dangerous man you will ever encounter and all he has to do to start a war in some underdeveloped country with hidden oil resources, can be arranged while comfortably seated behind his desk, sipping a cup of tea made from the leaves growing in the very same country he has just doomed to be at war over the foreseeable decade at least. “

“Sherlock, please, don’t exaggerate. I occupy a minor position in the British Government.”

“There is nothing minor about you, Mycroft, neither physically nor metaphorically.”

And they were back to jabbing again apparently, Mycroft noted with a hint of irritation.

Also, John had that invigorated look again that suggested that Sherlock was the most wonderful thing he had ever experienced. Mycroft couldn’t really argue with that statement, finding his brother quite precious himself, even if his constant needling was one of his less endearing traits.  
He had the feeling that he was suddenly sitting in the presence of two schoolboys snickering at the headmaster and he didn’t like that comparison at all. Playing this “ruling by ridiculing”- game was clearly not working, he didn’t feel in control of the situation at all and had to quickly figure out a way to turn things around before it got even worse.

“How droll,” he commented dryly. “My brother apparently has the emotional intelligence and humour of a five-year-old this evening.”

Sherlock’s smugness instantly froze, and he returned to glaring instead. 

Mycroft finished his glass of wine and swallowed the final piece of steak on his plate, suddenly feeling very full and tired. It was high time to turn the screws so he could find out the truth about Dr John Watson and finish this once and for all. 

As his little brother was so fond of declaring: this was beginning to bore him.

\-----------

As the wine had begun to affect him and the fullness of food in his stomach as well as Sherlock’s ethereal face looking at him across the table, making him warm inside, John was beginning to feel relaxed.

The jabs between the brothers were more entertaining than uncomfortable now, even if he was pretty sure he was the only one feeling that way.  
His and Sherlock’s shared laugh had given him some well-needed energy and confidence and as the housekeeper quietly came in to remove the almost empty plates and serve some dessert, he decided to do what he was here to do, excusing himself by asking for the way to the bathroom. 

After having tried to probe a little deeper on the subject of Mycroft's line of work without getting anything but vague answers from the man himself or acerbic quips without actual content from Sherlock, he gave up.

It was time to snoop around a little instead.

“Up the stairs, second door to the left,” Mycroft offered when John asked for direction. “But if your nosiness gets the better of you, do keep in mind what I said about cameras being best placed where they can’t be easily detected.”

It was said lightly, as if making a silly joke, but the intent behind it was clear. 

John felt his jaws clench but said nothing and simply left, not wanting to give Mycroft the satisfaction of seeing anything he said get to him.  
He had never backed away from an oppressor before and he was certainly not going to do it now, but biding his time was perhaps a wiser move. He felt deeply sorry for Sherlock having to live with this on a daily basis. No wonder he seemed to detest his brother’s presence; Mycroft was a veritable smug know-it-all with a superiority complex. 

Not that Sherlock was particularly gracious either, but he had so many other fine qualities that more then well made up for his attitude in John’s book, memories of that pert arse climbing out of the men’s room window earlier today, for example, still vividly at the forefront of John's mind.

Emboldened by the repoire he had felt between them tonight he decided that he should ask Sherlock to meet up again soon. 

Maybe he could actually continue to see Sherlock even after his mission was over?  
Right now, perhaps influenced by the wine but still capable of thinking fairly rationally, he could see no objections to that. If he saw to it that Sherlock didn't get involved more then necessary, it could be done surely? 

Sherlock would hardly care if his brother got in trouble, right? With all that sniping going on between them, they hardly gave the impression to care too deeply about one another. Except for that strange display with the sauce and the spoon earlier.  
The memory of that was still sitting badly with him for reasons he couldn't explain and resolutely chose to ignore for the moment.

Or perhaps John could resign the mission altogether, citing Mycroft being much too difficult a target to get to?  
Not even Moran had managed to achieve satisfactory goals and he was far more skilled in this line of work than John was. 

A third option he hadn’t previously considered up until now was to get Sherlock to help him with this. He certainly had the intelligence and the skills to do something like it and working together, they would surely get results soon enough.  
But that was a risky option. John wasn't sure how loyal the younger brother was to the older one, despite the never-ending sniping and snarking between them. It was a huge difference between engaging in petty sibling warfare and to actually betray someone.  
He wasn’t sure if Sherlock could acctually be used for something like that and he wasn’t overly eager to try his luck with that option just yet. But if he managed to extract more time to achieve his goal from Moran, it was perhaps something to take into consideration.

Ignoring the temptation to look inside the first door he passed upstairs, John actually did head straight for the bathroom. 

Mycroft might be a control freak of unfathomable proportions but surely not even he would be paranoid enough to put up cameras inside the bathroom?  
Taking comfort in that thought he stepped inside, did actually urinate before heading for the sink to wash his hands. 

As he was finished, his eyes scanned the room, falling on the two bathrobes hanging on the wall, not actually that close to the towels he was really in need of, but if there indeed was a camera planted in here, despite John’s misgivings about it, it would simply show him drying off on one of the bathrobes instead of the towel intended for the task. 

The small camera devise he had nimbly extracted from the pocket of his trousers while standing over the toilet to relieve himself, was now firmly being pressed against the hem of one of the robes to attach it, while he was seemingly drying his hands on the fabric, the device safely hidden on account of being so small and difficult to spot, unless you were very perceptive or actually looking for it. 

Happy with this outcome he cast a glance at his face in the mirror, as if anchoring his deeds to himself as being satisfactory. 

He couldn’t be sure which brother was the bearer of that particular robe, but it didn’t matter, it was a good start and at least something he could report back to Moran afterwards. 

Settling with his progess for now, he turned to exit the bathroom.

\-----------

As soon as John was out the door Mycroft turned to Sherlock.

“Your taste in dogs is truly horrible. You should get that one neutered at least, he has his tongue practically hanging out while watching you, it’s unbecoming and frankly unpleasant to watch.”

“You invited him,” Sherlock coolly noted as they both ignored the presence of the housekeeper removing the still untouched plate in front of Sherlock, him being the only one not having eaten anything. 

He had felt a bit nauseous watching the others shuffle food into their mouths and was glad that he had decided to forgo the wine as well. He was right now the only one with his full wits about him, and that was saying a lot as his brother was also present in the room.

“So I did," Mycroft mused, "I decided to put an end to all this sneaking about and sending secret texts to each other in the middle of the night. Oh, and I fired Miss Bunton today so you can't rely on her incompetence to favour you in the future.”

“Well, I’m sure you have a new talent installed by the time for my next outing. It won’t make any difference,” Sherlock muttered, opting to inspect his fingernails instead of looking at his brother. That would probably irritate Mycroft to no end, but Sherlock didn't care right now. 

Surely enough, his brother's voice took on a sterner tone, the hint of accusation barely contained.

“You lied to me, Sherlock. And you broke my very firmly expressed order about you not seeing that man again.”

“We hadn’t agreed on it, so it doesn’t count.”

“Don’t be childish. You can’t decide things like that for yourself. What do you even know about him?”

“Not much really. But it doesn’t bother me. I don’t understand why it bothers _you_ that I meet with him. Unless we’re walking down that very familiar and tiresome road of your unfounded jealousy once again.”

“Unfounded is it? Considering your behaviour, sneaking off with him at every opportunity, not telling me what you do and then texting each other in the middle of the night, who could blame me for not taking the unfounded part of that sentence seriously?”

Sherlock shrugged, still not raising his eyes from his thorough inspection of his cuticles. They were perhaps in need of a manicure, he pondered, as if his brother wasn't even there. 

“If we were allowed to meet whenever we wanted, there wouldn’t be any need for the secrecy,” he finally offered in a bored tone of voice, as if Mycroft was somehow too stupid to see logic all of a sudden. 

Undeterred by this blatant provocation Mycroft replied calmly:

“And you would grow bored with him within minutes.”

“Who’s to say? All I know is that he is more entertaining to be around than you would initially think. Besides, the outcome of me growing bored with him would suit you, wouldn't it? You never liked sharing.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was sharing. Thank you for that conformation, little brother.”

“No bother,” Sherlock drawled and leaned back in his chair. He wondered what John was doing upstairs. He certainly hadn’t been in the need of a toilet, that much was clear. There were so many questions surrounding that man.  
Sherlock was actually enjoying the puzzle John was turning out to be, but Mycroft was trying to ruin all his fun, as usual. 

“Did you know that he has been here before? Not inside the house obviously but passing by. Shortly before you encountered him. He was caught on camera.” Mycroft's voice came drifting into his thoughts, disturbing Sherlock's own musings about John.

“Have you become in the habit of retrieving old security tapes now? I guess you did the same regarding the texts?”

“It’s a good option when younger brothers try deleting evidence. "

“Maybe I just didn’t want you to kill him off, like you did with the last person I texted.”

Mycroft huffed in an incredulous tone.

“Oh, please, you had no qualms about that. You even took your new friend to see the body, if evidence can be trusted. There was mentions of that particular crime scene in the conversation between you two, and Mr Smitten over there waxed poetry about your observational skills and interest in crime scenes just now over dinner, so that conclusion wasn’t particularly difficult to make. Does he share your hobby perhaps?”

“I wouldn’t know. I guess I have to ask him.”

Mycroft pursed his lips disapprovingly, Sherlock could see it, looking through his lashes.

“How charming. Tell me, what else are you looking forward to share with him? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing both your bed as well as your interest in deducing crime scenes.”

Sherlock sighed as the glint in Mycroft’s eyes was suddenly tainted by anger. There it was again, that incessant jealousy. Deciding to show how tiresome it was to experience his brother's possessiveness all the time, he decided to twist the knife even further.

“I wouldn’t mind as long as he understands my need for freedom and wish to be independent. All you do is lock me up in here to rot away. Where's the fun in that? If the offer arose I would be highly tempted to accept.”

With a distinct clatch Mycroft’s hand hit Sherlock’s cheek hard, imprints clearly visible against the pale skin as his hand lowered again, and Sherlock’s head actually went flying back from the force.

“Enough,” Mycroft hissed with fury in his voice. 

Sherlock could tell his brother was on the verge of losing his temper right now. Unusual as that was when in the company of others, Mycroft actually had a limit when it came to Sherlock’s insulting shenanigans and after being put through enough, he lashed back in full force. 

But Sherlock wasn’t willing to take it this time, considering himself not having done anything to warrant this reaction. 

With eyes burning with equal fury he stared at his brother and then abruptly rose from his chair, stalking hastily over to the door to throw it open with force.

“Where are you going? Get back this instant!” he could hear Mycroft order in a demanding voice behind his back before he slammed the door behind him and started up the stairs, nearly knocking John over, as he was exiting the bathroom. 

“Whoa, slow down, Sherlock! What’s happening?”

“My fat tyrant of a brother, that’s what happening! I can’t stand it, he’s trying to control every aspect of my life, I can’t _breathe!_ ”

John stuck his hands out, looking like he was trying to sooth an erratic horse. He had that familiar kind look on his face that was so unexpectantly calming to Sherlock who never had experienced someone behaving like that with him before. 

Mycroft was all about the cutting remarks and strategy, you had to keep up with his way of thinking, preferable even to be a step ahead at all times or Sherlock feared he would lose the control of whatever small remnants of his life that was left for his brother to take.  
There was something fundamentally wrong with them and it was simply exhausting to live like this any longer. 

Therefore the contrast of normality that John offered was so tempting at the moment and he wondered for a second what it would be like to just yield to John obvious infatuation with him, get a different kind of love from another person, completely different from the smothering variety his brother was offering.

He saw the exact moment John noticed the bruise that was beginning to form across his cheek and the indignant anger that immediately rose in his eyes when he put two and two together. John was sometimes so predictably easy to read and Mycroft’s words about Sherlock growing bored with him soon enough echoed in his head. 

But no, there was more to this man than what met the eye and Sherlock actually did enjoy his company, which was saying a lot because he generally never attached himself to others, especially not after Victor. 

“What happened? Did he hit you? “

John’s voice cut through his thoughts, his hand going up to cup Sherlock’s jaw so he could inspect the cheek more closely. 

His touch sent a warm sensation through Sherlock’s body, this was so different to what he was used to. He looked down and their eyes met, deep concern and worry on John's face, replaced by a tinge of longing as he became aware of their proximity.  
Any second now he would step away, come up with some mumbled excuse and the moment would be over. 

But, as if proving Sherlock’s point about there being more to him than met the eye, John instead closed the distance even further and tilted Sherlock’s face downward as he simultaneously craned his neck, pressing his lips firmly against Sherlock’s in one fluid movement. And to his own surprise Sherlock let it happen. 

He closed his eyes and just sank into the sensation of kissing someone that wasn’t Mycroft, his brain immediately cataloguing the small differences in the experience, making comparisons, mentally taking notes while simultaneously just enjoying it and the pleasure that was jolting through him.

As he opened his eyes again he could see John’s eyes open as well, spilling over with emotion and obvious desire in them, happy, surprised and content at the same time. 

The next second they widened all of a sudden, having caught sight of something behind Sherlock’s back and Sherlock didn’t even have the time to react before the firm grip around his neck yanked him back, away from John and pushed him against the wall, his head crashing against the hard surface.

Panting like a raging bull Mycroft stared at him before turning his eyes towards John, absolute fury burning in them. 

“What the hell are you doing?” John managed to yell before Mycroft crashed into him with full force, grabbing him by the front of his sweater.

“The question is what _you_ are doing, John Watson! You don’t touch my brother, do you hear? You don’t so much as go near him from this moment on or I’ll destroy you.” 

“You can’t do that, you can’t force us to do anything,” John seethed, pushing Mycroft so he could get away from his grip, while at the same time trying to meet Sherlock’s eyes to see if he was alright.

Sherlock looked on as if in a daze, his head actually spinning from the impact of his head crashing against the wall, unable to move and interfere with the situation unwrapping in front of him.

Thoughts of what happened to Victor immediately swirled up inside him. He couldn’t let the same happen to John.  
He should never have let himself be kissed, even less so to respond to it. Mycroft was going to destroy John, there was no question about it. He had to do something.

“Stop it, Mycroft,” he said, hearing how meek his voice sounded, but still unsteady enough to not being able to muster up sufficient force to either act or make a proper protestation.

Mycroft turned on him immediately, like a viper, hissing, at the same time releasing his grip of John.

“You shut your mouth, Sherlock, I’ll deal with you later. Right now I want this man out of my house.” Turning to face John again, he spat: I" don’t know what you want, except for the obvious, but him you will never ever so much as cast your eyes on again. You are not who you pretend to be and I will do everything in my power to expose who you truly are and then I will enjoy ending you.”

There was further movement from the stairs and that odious ape Mycroft employed as a driver and misguided bodyguard, appeared as if from thin air. Sherlock saw, is if in daze, how the man went straight for John, grabbing him in a police lock with his hands behind his back. John had no chance to defend himself from this giant, despite trying to kick and wrestle away from the grip.

“I want him removed from the property, toss him out on the street and call the police if he tries to get back inside again,” Mycroft ordered.

“Anything else, Sir?”

Sherlock saw his brother look at John, his breathing slowly getting under control again but cold rage still evident in his eyes.  
The cold rage was by far worse than the hot-tempered one. It was calculating and dangerous and the state where his brother made all his most destructive decision, cutting like a scalpel through people’s existences, permanently damaging, with a wish to extinguish by causing as much harm as humanly possible.  
It was frightening to behold, and experience had taught Sherlock to never under-estimate this state. 

Mycroft drew a hand through his dishevelled thinning hair, trying to pat it down into order again, then smoothing out his rumpled suit before stepping up to John who was held even firmer by his captor.

“You will forget that you ever heard the name Holmes in connection to me and my brother. When you have been thrown out of my house all contact with my brother will desist. You are not to ever walk this street again, be anywhere near S:t Peters, this house, Whitehall or wherever else we might find ourselves. Whatever agenda you had in mind when initiating contact with Sherlock and weaselling yourself into our lives, consider that case closed from now. A far as we are concerned, you never existed and the same goes for you. Follow these restrictions and you might find yourself still breathing come morning. Break them, and I’ll come after you, no mercy shown. “

Sherlock knew that the safest option for John right now would be to take in this information without putting up any resistance and be allowed to leave. Making an enemy out of his brother wasn’t anything he would wish on anyone, being it himself sometimes, he knew exactly what that entailed. 

So, to discourage John from saying anything else, he remained quiet himself and turned his eyes away as John was being led down the stairs, hoping that the other man would not be tempted to address him.

He could hear the front door open downstairs and then closed firmly a second after. 

He was alone with Mycroft now and he steeled himself for what was coming while he heard the angry yells of John’s voice from outside, calling Sherlock’s name while simultaneously cursing Mycroft’s. 

_Good bye, I guess_ , he though to himself before facing his brother.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go from bad to worse...and John meets someone unexpected.

John was positively seething as his body hit the hard pavement outside the Holmes residence, the pain as his shoulder and right hand took the biggest impact, not doing anything regarding the anger radiating through him right now.

His first instinct was to immediately try getting back inside, not only to have another go with Mycroft, but also because finding that the thought of leaving Sherlock behind in that house terrified him. Mycroft had for some strange reason really gone after Sherlock as well, that slam into the wall had been very forceful, much more so than anything done to John.

But even he could see that it would be a hopeless task that would only lead to even more problems if he made another attempt. He had no doubt that Mycroft had the means to make him disappear if thoroughly provoked and with the driver helping him as well, John simply couldn’t win.

After rising to dust himself off from the dirt and gravel of the pavement, while checking for injuries that would need tending to, he slowly started to make his way up the street, in the direction of the Holland Park Underground station. 

He suddenly remembered that he had accidentally left his shopping bag in Mycroft’s car when being picked up earlier and the thought of it still lying on the backseat, the milk going warm, perhaps even beginning to smell after a while, and the butter melting, leaving a greasy stain on the fancy leather, caused him a surprisingly childish satisfaction. His wallet, phone and oyster card were at least still in his pocket, so he would be able to get home to clean himself up. 

His head, as well as his shoulder and the right hand ached, the head mostly on account of the wine in combination with the overwhelming surge of emotions that he had been exposed to during the evening. Like a really bad hangover coming several hours too soon.....

Despite that, the kiss he had shared with Sherlock had been worth it all. 

He could scarcely believe his luck when his spontaneous attempt at getting a taste of those beautiful lips had been reciprocated.   
Too bad it had been such a swift kiss, considering Mycroft’s violent interruption. 

What was the issue with that man anyway? Why had he suddenly become so angry? 

It couldn’t be the kiss, surely? 

A thought hit John as he hobbled along, a possibility that if true, cleared the picture a little bit. 

Maybe Mycroft actually _did_ have cameras installed in the bathroom and he had seen John plant the spy device inside the hem of the bathrobe, had put two and two together and then reacted with such vehemence because he was feeling betrayed? 

It was a possibility, and if so, how betrayed would _Sherlock_ feel when finding out that John had initially used him to get to Mycroft?   
Maybe he would even misinterpret the reason for the kiss, thinking that John had used it as a diversion tactic instead of the true intentions that really lay behind it.

Regret immediately hit him. If he had been able, he would have done things differently. 

On the other hand, if he hadn’t accepted this mission in the first place, he would never even have met Sherlock and that thought didn't sit well with him at all.   
Sherlock had been able to make John feel a happiness he hadn’t experienced in a long time, and just the thought of those luscious lips pressed against his made him feel giddy all over, despite the other mixed emotions he was feeling right now.

Deep in thought, he at first didn’t notice the black car that silently rolled up next to him and then continued to crawl along the pavement as he walked, following his slow pace. 

When he finally did, his first instinct was that it must be Mycroft who had sent his driver after him, perhaps to finish what had been started. 

Well, that suited him just fine. He was more than ready to take on a second round if that was what that pompous twat wanted. 

With a renewed spark of anger, he yanked open the door to the backseat, despite the vehicle still moving. But to his surprise it wasn’t Mycroft who was seated in the back, but a completely different man, one he had never seen before.

The car pulled to a stop as John immediately released the door and stepped back, beginning to make his apologies while holding his hands up in a placating gesture.   
The man inside looked at him, his head tilted slightly, letting his eyes roam over John and to John’s surprise he didn’t seem upset at all, more amused than anything else. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” John said, “I thought you were someone else. Apologies.”

“Who did you think I was, Doc?” the man said in a soft curious voice.

John’s eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion, putting him on edge. 

Who was this? 

And more importantly, did he know who John was?   
He had referred to him as Doc which was simply too much of a coincidence and after the fiasco of this evening, he felt suspicious about all and everyone. 

He looked at the man inside the car more closely, trying to place him. Had they met before?

The man was of average build, perhaps a little on the short side, dark hair in a combed back style and a lightgrey checked suit that looked expensive, if a little too ostentatious. The most memorable detail was the dark brown eyes that was looking at him with mirth in them.

“Come on the, are you gonna stand there all night making eyes at me? Hop in! We have _so_ much to talk about!”

John didn’t move an inch. He wasn’t getting into any more cars with strangers this evening if he could help it.

“Excuse me, but who are you?” he blurted out instead.

The man in the car did the most unexpected gesture when asked this question. He rolled his eyes at John.

“I’m Jim Moriarty of course. Your _boss_ ,” he sighed, as if it had been obvious all along and John should have known it from the beginning. 

John automatically straightened himself up a bit, despite his shoulder protesting about the movement. This was unexpected.

“Sorry. I didn’t realise…” he began but then fell quiet again, unsure of what else to say. This evening was just getting worse by the minute. 

Why on earth was his boss here? Was this really the place to have a check up regarding progress on the mission?   
And where was Moran? He was the one usually handling these things.   
No one sent for the top boss when you could do business just as easily with the underling.

Meanwhile, Jim Moriarty was clearly getting restless inside the car.

“So, are you getting in on your own or do I have to pull out the red carpet?”

Jolting to life, John stepped forward, a final hesitant look around the empty street he was leaving behind, forever if Mycroft was to be believed. 

Not that John had any intentions of doing anything that man tried ordering him to do. The planted spy camera was a first step in bringing that smug bastard down and John swore that he was going to do whatever he had in his power to make the final fall from the pinnacle happen as well.

So he got in the car, closed the door and let himself be taken away, confident in the knowledge that he was now in the presence of a man who could help him with reaching exactly that specific goal.

\----------

When John was now removed from the house, Sherlock pushed away from the wall he had leaned against to find balance, his head still a little dizzy, not to mention, hurting like hell.

He absentmindedly wondered if he had perhaps gotten a small concussion, his fingers tentatively touching the back of his head that had crashed into the wall with such force.

He could sense Mycroft staring at him, not even remotely mellowed by having had the pleasure of throwing out the interloper who had kissed his little brother.   
Oh, no Mycroft was indeed still very angry. 

Sherlock steeled himself, taking a deep breath while clenching his teeth, the pain and sudden tiredness battling out for dominance over his body.   
He began regretting not having eaten for so long, his body felt positively weak and brittle, the way he usually felt when coming down badly from a drug induced high, his senses highlighted tenfold, his ears ringing with an alarming sound and the eyes unable to focus properly.

It irritated him, because nothing he had been through this evening warranted this reaction. 

Or maybe his subconscious had been waiting for something like this and was finally unleashing relief of some kind, causing him to sag like a rag doll.   
If Mycroft did anything to him now, he wasn’t sure he would be able to muster up enough energy to handle it. Or even get out of it alive.

So, instead of trying to face his brother who was standing in front of him like a frustrated bull ready to charge, he gathered whatever energy he had left and then....

He ran.

He made it almost to the door of his room before Mycroft caught up with him and yanked him away from the protection of a locked barrier between them, instead shoving him roughly to the floor before bending down, grabbing a huge chunk of Sherlock’s hair in his fist and yanked him even further away from the safety of the room. 

Being prideful by nature, Sherlock didn’t show any signs of being hurt by this action, despite the impact on his hair roots causing his eyes to water in pain.

Instead he gave his brother a defiant glare.

“Go on then, hit me already so we can get it over with! I can see you’re itching for it!”

“You deceitful slut!” Mycroft hissed while standing widelegged over his brother, all pretence of his clothes and appearance coming out of this intact, being a lost cause now. He panted heavily, not used to this kind of physical activity, while simultaneously removing his belt.

“Was he worth it? How did it feel letting that dog do whatever he pleased with you?” 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, his face looking positively apoplectic now.

“Did you _gag_ for it?” 

“Don’t be absurd. He kissed me and I kissed him back, that’s all there is. No need for this extreme overreaction. But that's you in a nutshell isn't it, Mycroft? Too much of everything, be it food, jealousy, control, protectiveness. Always never enough.” 

Sherlock did his best to look insolent, knowing how this would provoke Mycroft to get on and be done with whatever he needed to get out of his system. At least for now. There was no reasoning with him when he was like this and letting the anger he felt, come out in physical form instead of letting it stew and cause more damage in the end, was the preferable option. They had been this road before after all and Sherlock knew the procedures by now.

It would be far from done in the long run though, his brother’s jealousy was firing on all cylinders now, it was already well beyond Mycroft’s ability to hold back. His eyes were black with rage, the nostrils flaring and his mouth twisted in a snarl. 

Sherlock’s final thought was that his brother looked like one of those Wild Things in the book Mycroft had read to him as a small boy, Where the Wild Things Are, and Sherlock couldn’t hold back a hysterical little giggle bubbling up inside of him as that thought hit him, while the sound of his unbalanced laugh echoed through the corridor. 

He could see his brother misinterpret that laugh by the way his face froze for a second, thinking Sherlock was laughing at him and his misery, a fleeting second of disbelief crossing his eyes before his rage came crashing back like a tidal wave, contorting his features into a mask of fury.

And then, Mycroft snapped.

The belt came flying like hail over Sherlock’s body, no care for where it hit him, over kidneys, along the flanks, across his buttocks, his shirt ripping, blood beginning to seep through the shredded fabric, but Mycroft couldn’t stop. Sherlock bit his jaws together hard, he simply refused to scream but in the end, when everything felt like hellfire on his skin....he broke. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. It might have been when Victor left, it might have been later even, although he doubted it. The point was that it was ages ago and he had forgotten what it felt like.

The feeling was strange, he almost didn’t understand what that wet residue coming from his eyes really was before his throat constricted and his vision became blurry from tears welling up. 

But Mycroft didn’t stop until Sherlock finally let out a sob.

It was quiet and suppressed but still, his brother somehow heard it and the belt fell to the floor as if it had burnt him, the buckle causing a small clinking sound when it hit the hard surface, the actual belt looking like a black snake rolled up in a lifeless form next to Sherlock’s hunched-up body.

“How could you do this to me?” he heard Mycroft’s voice in the distance, above his head somewhere. “Did you actually think that you could stand in _my_ home, kissing that man, right in front of my eyes and I would do _nothing_? Just let it happen?”

This was Mycroft going into defence mode, regret perhaps beginning to nag at the perception of what he had done, but the anger still preceding that emotion, holding him in a firm grip not easily disposed of.

Sherlock tried turning his head to look at him but a firm “no!” came from his brother, a hollow voice, a heart shattered and then steps beginning to walk away. 

Then they suddenly came back again in full haste. 

Sherlock let his eyes fall shut, for once unable to foresee what his brother would do next and not eager to witness it either. He could sense him bending down next to him, the small gust of his breath hitting his cheek in a vicious whisper.

“I can’t look at you right now. I _need_ you to not be here. Go to your room and lock the door or head outside and inject something, like I know you think about doing every second of your woken time, just don’t…be _here_ or I swear to God I’ll kill you. Get out of my sight, Sherlock. _Now_!”

Sherlock wondered if a _please_ from him would have changed anything, if that never spoken word could have softened Mycroft’s rushed actions a bit. But unable to put that word in his mouth, he remained silent instead, waiting for whatever came next.

But nothing more came. 

Mycroft simply rose and was gone, the door to his office slamming shut behind him seconds later.

Sherlock slowly got to his feet, his body positively shaking as if in shock. It hurt all over and he felt himself shiver, unsure if it was primarily on account of the pain, the exposure to the cold air through his torn shirt or his body having had enough, with the lack of food, too little sleep and drained from emotions running high. Maybe it was because he had cried.

This was exactly why he wished to think of his body as only transport.   
It always betrayed him at every opportunity and crashed when he tried pushing it too far. It would have been easier if he had just been able to ignore all these needs that came with it and focused solely on the mind. 

This body had caused him nothing but pain with its weaknesses and insistent needs, ranging from the drugs to the sex, to the more basic demands like sleep, oxygen and food. 

As a child Sherlock had said how he wanted his brain to be put in a jar, being kept alive but without the hassle of the rest of the bodily functions.   
His parents had thought him silly and had laughed at the idea, but as an adult Sherlock reckoned his younger self had clearly been on to something wise and thought-provoking that could have spared him a lot of pain and misery.

Mycroft would not have wanted him if he hadn’t been tempted by Sherlock’s body in the first place all those years ago, deciding that it was something he wanted and lusted after.  
The want in his brother’s eyes had egged Sherlock on of course, never backing down from a challenge, so he wasn’t blameless in any way, simply saying it wouldn’t have happened if his brother hadn’t been physically attracted to him.

The same could be said for John and Victor.   
For them it was the body first and foremost that was the attraction, he had seen it in their eyes, how they wanted him for the pleasures his physical exterior promised by looking the way it did. 

People could maybe learn to like him for his personality, even if most never even made the attempt, but the appearance was what they saw first and he had never shied away from exploiting that to his advantage either when it benefitted him, so he was well aware of the effect it had on others.

Sherlock himself wouldn’t either have wanted anything or anyone if not for his body reacting to stupid stimulations and physical desires, that kiss he had shared with John was full proof of that. 

Every time he had punctured his skin with a needle of Cocaine and felt the rush of it blazing through his veins. Or the way his body loved how he and Mycroft indulged in each other sexually. Him getting spanked with Mycroft’s silly school ruler, causing his pale skin to turn red and flushed. His brother riding him hard into the mattress in that ridiculously plush bed of his or how Sherlock’s skin prickled when Mycroft let his tongue glide over his brother's shaft in that long fluid motion that ended with him swallowing Sherlock’s cock completely, almost gagging on it, the teeth carefully touching his sensitive skin, always the threat of biting down while causing stimulation by licking him all over. 

It was all down to a stupid vodily weakness and look where it had gotten him.

But despite the horrible pain he was in right now, not to mention the humiliation of having broken down and cried in front of Mycroft, that first contact of the belt to his back...it had felt wonderful.

Well, it was all done and over with now. 

Not forever probably, whatever Mycroft had said, it was highly unlikely that he would ever let Sherlock go completely. But this was the end of this particular round between them and it saddened him how it had ended.

Mycroft had pretty much given him carte blanche to go out and shoot up, just as long as he stayed out of his sight. That was pretty harsh even for his usually cold-hearted standards  
Taking drugs would get Sherlock straight back to rehab again, as there wasn’t any second chances left for him, hadn’t been for years. Another pointless existence behind locked doors and only other addicts to keep him company would once again begin, becoming his world for the following months ahead. 

A part of him thought of another option, was this really the only alternative? This pointless turn of the wheel once again, forever doomed to keep spinning in the same pattern, surely there must be another way? Sherlock who had that scientific way of thinking could easily have amused himself with thinking about results and consequences, calculating the fallout of different variables and outcomes, if it had not been so personal. 

As it felt like right now, he could think of no new alternatives than the usual one and he needed to get out and stop wasting precious time.

Staying with John was not an option, if Mycroft found out, and of course he would, he would kill John. Simple as that. 

Sherlock had no wish for that to happen. But he also had no further wish to stay in this house. Mycroft had more or less ordered him to leave anyway so he might as well do it.

Bracing himself for the pain that pulsated through his body, he undid his shirt buttons and let the ruined garment fall to the floor, followed by the trousers and pants. He then walked as resolutely as he could along the corridor to his own room, ignoring the mirror as he passed it and went straight for the closet. He picked out a new outfit, the softest shirt he had, so as not to cause even further pain by the fabric touching his skin. Then a pair of matching trousers and finally his Belstaff coat that his brother had given him when he turned 25. 

He loved that coat, it was his armour when entering the world outside and the first thing he put on, every time he returned.   
This time he wasn’t leaving it behind though, but taking it with him instead.

He had only a few pounds in cash, no phone and nothing else he could really use, so instead of wasting another minute, he silently closed the door to his room and walked along the corridor towards the stairs. 

As he passed his brother’s office, he could see light coming from beneath the door, but didn’t hear any sounds from inside and he didn’t stop to listen more carefully either. 

He softly continued down the stairs and then out the door, a rush of anticipation hitting him as he closed it behind him. The chilly evening air nibbled at his skin and he carefully wrapped his coat around him despite the discomfort it caused. Then he started walking.

\----------

“Sooo…you look a little rumpled, Johnny-boy? What happened tonight?”

Not liking the familiar tone of his boss when addressing him, John first considered saying something about it, but then he decided not to, utterly done with causing more trouble tonight. Despite his looks, which was a combination of an overgrown boy and a rather small man in a posh suit but no taste, Moriarty was the epitome of a crime lord. Ruthless to the core and without any conscience. 

Strange how that seemed to be the default setting in powerful men like him and Mycroft Holmes, John thought sourly.

He wasn’t overly pleased with telling his boss the whole story of the events from the evening and gave an edited version instead, beginning with how he got in the car with Mycroft’s goon of a driver and ending it with a mumbled description of the fight that had caused him to be thrown out on the street. No mention of the kiss, the incident with the spoon or his feelings for Sherlock. 

His boss would arguably consider him weak for getting this mixed up emotionally when tactics and the need to get the job done had been how he had achieved his goals in the past. It made him feel like an amateur the way this mess had ended. 

At least he had achieved one thing and that camera would start recording as soon as someone, preferably Mycroft, put the bathrobe on. If nothing else, they would get a better inside look of the rooms that had been off limits this evening and it would make it easier if a break-in was required to get to the contact information of those members in the secret society Mycroft belonged to.   
John made sure to specifically point out how he had successfully achieved this result at least. 

Moriarty didn’t seem too interested in the mission right now though. 

Instead he gave John a scrutinizing stare before cracking up in a devious smile. 

“Interesting. You seem to have rattled the cage of Mycroft Holmes quite forcefully by the looks of it. And that’s rare. He isn’t called the Ice Man for nothing. But you haven’t mentioned the reason for it. He hardly lashed out like that unprovoked....”

Damn it, John thought, clenching his jaws, unwilling to share anything more. But as it was his boss, something needed to be said. 

“Well, I can’t be sure of the reason as it happened quite unexpected and out of the blue, but a theory I have is that he saw me planting the camera. The house is under surveillance, he told me so himself, to stop me from snooping around. I just didn’t figure the bathroom would be watched as well.”

Moriarty snorted.

“Nope. That’s not it. And you’re not telling me everything, I can tell.”

He leaned closer, sniffing in the air around John and then pulled back, a grimace of disgust on his face. 

“You reek of fear and nerves. That’s rather unpleasant. So, let’s do this once again and properly this time. What incident caused Mycroft Holmes to react that violently towards you?”

John immediately felt his hackles rise.

“You can’t know that what I said wasn’t the reason. _I_ don’t even know why he reacted the way he did, and I was there!”

“The camera has a tracker and that tracker tells me that the camera is still where you left it. Inside the house. If Mycroft Holmes had figured out what you were there to do, it would be destroyed by now, don’t you think? So third and final time: what aren’t you telling me?” 

There was something in his voice that indicated that it was indeed the final time. What that would mean in reality John had no idea about, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to find out either.

So reluctantly he told Moriarty about kissing Sherlock.

To his surprise his boss didn’t seem to disapprove, quite contrary he let out a gleeful giggle and clapped his hand slowly, as if applauding John for it instead.

“Ah, so you kissed little brother and big brother lost it? That’s _priceless_! I wish I could have seen it myself.”

John, still feeling very irritated about the whole situation, and awkward about being forced to tell all this, couldn’t help but raise his voice.

“I can’t see how it is related. Why would Mycroft care about me kissing Sherlock? Disapprove of it perhaps, but act like this? No, it can’t be the reason,” he protested, but the memory of Sherlocks mouth swallowing the spoon of sauce his brother had offered and Mycroft’s very content face afterwards nibbled at something worrying in the back of his mind. 

Moriarty, though, was clearly done speculating about any further reasons behind Mycroft Holmes losing his temper for now, instead eagerly having something else on his mind.

“What I’m curious to know is...how much do you actually fancy Sherlock?” he asked, with a speculative grin on his face. “ Is he just a pretty junkie with a firm arse or is there more to it than that?”

John immediately felt uncomfortable talking about this. It was Moran all over again and it was annoying.  
Besides, it was no ones business what he felt for Sherlock; he hardly knew himself. 

He did feel something of course and lust was certainly part of it, but there was more to it than just want. He experienced happiness when being with Sherlock and yet nothing they had done so far warranted him feeling like this. It was almost like he was being in love. 

But that couldn’t be surely? He didn’t know Sherlock well enough to harbour those kinds of emotions....

Growing bored with waiting for John’s inner monologue to come to an end, Moriarty cut to the chase instead.

“Is it sufficient enough for you to be interested in killing two birds with one stone perhaps?”

“What do you mean?”

Moriarty sighed impatiently. 

“That spy camera is a good enough effort if this had been your first, or perhaps second week on the job. But this is simply moving too slowly for my taste.”

“This is a very special case,” John immediately defended himself, “it’s extremely difficult to get close to the target and I needed to establish a relationship with the younger brother if I would stand a chance to get to Mycroft. Moran said so as well, this isn’t a straight job, done in a week.”

“Nonetheless. I’m bored and I’m looking for quicker results. And unwittingly I think you might have provided us with just the right opportunity.”

Hating himself for giving his boss yet another reason for thinking him slow for not being able to follow his logic, he reluctantly had to ask:

“What is it that you have in mind?”

Moriarty looked positively gleeful where he sat on the edge of the car seat now, as if wanting to jump up at any second, expressing his delight in a more physical way. Clamping his hands together, as if containing himself, he began to explain.

“I believe this was mentioned to you as an option already from the beginning, if unable to succeed otherwise. If I were to guess, it would be that you’re just itching to get back in sweet Sherlock’s, I’m assuming welcoming, arms. It would have the added bonus of wounding big brother even further and I’m certain you’re not averse to that notion. So, in short: If we get our hands on his precious brother, you can have the pleasure of being the knight in shining armour, rescuing him from his bad bad brother. But also, as we can now ascertain, Sherlock is indeed a good pressure point and no better way to get what we want from Mycroft than to take away from him what he values most. So what I’m saying here, Johnny boy, is that we need to get our hands on Sherlock and take him under our care for a little while. I will even be generous enough to leave him under your personal protection. After the events this evening, and the rift it has momentarily caused between the brothers, the timing is perfect for us to pluck him off the streets.”

John shook his head incredulously.

“What are you talking about? He’s locked in that house most hours of the day. He basically only leaves to go to his NA meetings.”

“Yes, and normally that would be the circumstances. But tonight we have the shattered heart of an Ice Man to take in consideration and that house is simply not big enough to harbour the amount of the anger and hurt he is experiencing at the moment. So my guess is that silly Sherlock will take advantage of the temporary weakness in his brother’s army of protection and try making a run for it, probably heading straight for the closest drug den to clutter his brain with the enticing substance of the white lady called Cocaine. It’s his drug of choice after all, and he has been without it for a surprisingly long time now. I frankly didn’t expect him to make it this long.”

There was something malicious glimmering in his eyes as he talked about Sherlock and the drugs, causing an uneasy feeling to unfurl in John’s stomach when he saw it. 

Moriarty didn’t notice his face of disapproval, he just kept talking.

“Lucky for us, I saw an opportunity presenting itself when I found out that Mycroft had picked you up in his car and was driving you around for no apparent purpose for hours on end before finally coming here. He clearly had plans of his own regarding your presence tonight and depending on the outcome, it could be something I could use to our advantage if I played it right. He was most likely trying to sabotage your relationship with his brother or perhaps expose you in some way. Too bad it all blew up in his face. I would have loved to see the look on him when he saw you two kissing!”

Moriarty let out a high-pitched laugh and John clenched his jaws in annoyance. Moriarty made it all sound so sordid for some reason. It had only been a kiss for fuck’s sake!

But he had to admit that the plan of extracting Sherlock from Mycroft’s influence had the added bonus of John being able to see Sherlock again as well as get him out of Mycroft’s grip. A kidnapping like this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.   
If you really thought about it, was it even kidnapping if the effects would benefit the victim? And if John was personally responsible for the operation, he could take care so Sherlock didn’t end up injured or otherwise harmed. 

For every objection a small port of his mind presented him with, he had an equally good reason for going through with this plan anyway.

So he made his decision.

“Alright. But I need to be in charge of this,” he said.

“Of course, I wouldn’t have counted on anything less. And luckily for us, we don’t have to wait that long for the two of you to be reunited again. While we have been driving around in circles round the neighbourhood for a while now, my agent located further down the street of the Holmes resicence, has just informed me that we have a very interesting development happening right now.”

Not wanting to give any further information at the moment, Moriarty told his driver to turn around and under silence they were driven towards the familiar three-story house John had left less than an hour ago.

\----------

As Sherlock crossed the road further ahead, beginning to make his way towards the park, he heard the distant sound of a car approaching.

That sound wasn’t particularly unusual in itself, this was London after all and posh neighbourhood or not, cars drove late in the evenings here as well. 

If it had come from the street he had just left, he might have felt a bit worried about Mycroft having changed his mind. Sherlock was pretty sure he was not even remotely ready to face his brother right now. And when he actually saw the car heading towards him, but stopping a few feet away, his heart began to pound heavily inside his chest. 

He knew that in the state he was in now, he would not be able to run away from anyone. 

So instead he stopped and simply waited.

But when the car door opened, surprise as well as a surge of relief hit him.

Because stepping out of the black car that looked like a copy of his brother’s but apparently wasn’t, came someone he hadn't expected at all.   
It was John and he had a huge smile on his face as he waved to Sherlock, gesturing for him to come closer. 

Eager to see a familiar and friendly face and also someone who could help him get some sleep and take a look at his wounds, Sherlock didn’t need further encouragement right now and headed for the car and John beckoning from the opened door, his smile wide and happy. 

Sherlock actually felt pretty happy too.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has to face the consequences of his actions and John tries to come to terms with his own actions as well.

When Mycroft woke up a few hours later, he was surprised that he had been able to fall sleep at all. 

The last thing he remembered was that he had been sitting in his chair by the desk and done some work and that was indeed confirmed as the computer was opened up in front of him, even if the screen had gone black. 

He must have fallen asleep sitting up as he was still in said chair and a terrible stiffness had settled in the neck. He glanced at his watch and noticed that it was in the middle of the night, 02:15 and he wondered what it was that woken him up like this and why he had fallen asleep in here. For a few blissful seconds he was actually puzzled by this, he usually made it to bed these days, not one to burn the midnight oil like he had done in the early years of his career.   
There was no point, people adjusted themselves to his schedule now, not the opposite. 

As he was actually very punctual about both his eating and sleeping habits and he now shared his bed with Sherlock most nights, there was even more advantage to stick to that routine. 

When the thought of his brother appeared, it was then that all the memories of last night came crashing down over him as if a roof caving in. 

Sherlock...

Suddenly he was wide awake, a pain grabbing his chest as well as his stomach clenching as everything that had happened suddenly was back in the forefront of his mind, replaying like a horror show in front of his inner eyes: 

The dinner with John Watson, himself slapping Sherlock across the cheek for provoking him about sleeping with the doctor if the opportunity was ever to arise, the kiss he had walked into when he had gone searching for Sherlock, and then himself seeing completely red at the sight of that worthless specimen of a man pressing his lips on his little brother’s mouth as if they belonged there. 

After that, the horror just continued: 

How he had slammed Sherlock into the wall with such force it was surprising that he had been able to stand afterwards, the sight of himself throwing his brother to the floor as he had tried to flee and his own hand yanking his hair to prevent Sherlock from getting closer to safety. The vicious beating with the belt and then finally the order for his brother to get out of his sight or else.

Mycroft suddenly felt very ill and quickly had to bend down and reach for the wastebasket next to his desk to throw up, the remnants of last night’s dinner pouring out of him with such haste it made his whole body cramp from the spasms. 

When it was finally over, it felt like he had been purged and he ached all over. 

Because this was a scenario that had occurred before but never with such pure vitriol as last night. It was like the jealousy he constantly carried with him had taken over him completely and turned him into an uncontainable monster, unable to control himself, only feeling that overwhelming wish for revenge and releasing his hurt on the one who had caused it.   
In this case Sherlock.   
In most cases it was Sherlock actually, as he was the very reason for his jealousy in the first place.

Mycroft remembered that he had been about to go and apologize for the slap at the dinner table, still in control of the situation enough to admit it had been wrong and even if provoked by Sherlock, it wasn’t something he usually did, hitting his brother, unless it was a part of their games in the bedroom. 

But then the situation had spiralled out of control completely, him punishing Sherlock even more than he had the doctor who he had simply removed from the building. 

As the saying went: each man kills the thing he loves.

He buried his face in his hands. This was the end indeed.

Whatever tormented, but also occasionally, pleasurable moments he and his brother had shared over the past weeks was shattered to pieces now. There was no coming back from this, he could see that, as regret washed over him with just as much force as the jealous rage had done last night. 

He had ordered his brother to get out of his sight, to go out and put a needle in his arm for all he cared, just as long as he wasn’t anywhere near Mycroft, and despite the beating with the belt being bad enough, that last stab done with words was so much worse. 

For all the work they had done together to keep Sherlock from killing himself with drugs, his brother even going to those wretched meetings he hated and really had made the effort this time, it had to be Mycroft who pushed him back over the edge again. 

He let that impact sink in and the need to throw up again made itself noticed, but this time nothing came.  
He was empty inside.

Finally he rose from his chair stiffly, his body protesting after the uncomfortable position he had slept in, as well as his muscles aching a bit after the sudden use of them last night. Mycroft who led a very sedentary life normally, had put his body through a veritable exercise regime by his actions and they were now painfully reminding him of it.

He caught sight of himself in the ornate mirror that hung on the wall opposite his desk and he looked awful, his complexion almost grey and sickly, the eyes hollow and the clothes rumpled. His hair was sticking out a little all over the place and he self-consciously patted it down, the thinness and difficulty with keeping it dignified but at the same time in something of styled fashion always being a constant battle, unlike his brother’s mop of abundant curls. If he wanted to, Sherlock could rise out of bed in the morning and merely pull his fingers through his hair absentmindedly to make it look presentable. 

The thought of what bed his brother was occupying right now pierced him with pain. 

There was of course the chance, however horrible idea that wasthough, that Sherlock had been too injured to actually leave. But it was still a better option to the alternative which was him lying drugged out in a den somewhere.

A flashing thought of Sherlock having gone out to reunite with John Watson crossed Mycroft's mind, but then he waived it away. Sherlock had no phone of his own and even if Mycroft couldn’t be sure, he had got the impression that they had never actually been to the doctor’s home, so Sherlock had no way of knowing how to find him, even if he had wanted to.

That last part was still nagging uncomfortably at his resolve. Because there had been that kiss after all...

Mycroft hadn’t acted completely on unfounded grounds, letting his jealousy drive him paranoid like it sometimes did when he had nothing concrete to base the feeling on, just succumbing to a gut sense and the trappings of his own suspicious mind. 

But not willing to let his feelings spiral out of control once again by prodding at the memory of Sherlock kissing another man, he decided to take care of damage control and see for himself what he had to deal with.

With a slight staggering he managed to make it out of the room and out into the empty hall where last night’s events had taken place. 

The first things he saw was his own belt and a pile of clothes lying on the floor.

He stepped over to them and immediately recognised them as belonging to Sherlock, being the clothes he had worn yesterday. The sight of the ripped shirt made him wince, dreading to see the actual impact on his brother’s skin eventually. As he recalled it, he had delivered the strokes all over, as if wishing to eradicate something by doing so. Perhaps an attempt to abolish the feelings his brother harboured for another man. 

Because what were those feelings actually?   
They had kissed after all and despite Mycroft’s incessant worrying about his brother finding someone new to love, it was in reality very rare for Sherlock to connect with anyone. But something had clearly clicked into place in this case.

Mycroft bent down and picked up the pile of clothes before the housekeeper would stumble upon them. 

She must have had an inkling of the events from last night as she had still been in the house, taking care of the dishes and preparing for a dessert that was never presented.   
But despite his suspicions that she knew far more than what was technically suitable and could make both himself and his brother easy victims of blackmail, he knew she was loyal. She was the one who changed their sheets after all, she must know that they shared the same bed. And she must have overheard them over the years, both the fighting as well as the lovemaking.   
Not to mention the fact that she knew about Sherlock being kept under lock and key in this house most of the time, yet she had never breathed a word about it. But this, the very obvious evidence of violence out on open display, Mycroft wasn’t willing to share it, however much she was in the know.

He took his belt as well and then went over to his own bedroom and put it back in the drawer while he bundled up the clothes that wasn’t the shirt in a pile on his bed for the housekeeper to collect when coming to make the bed. Not that it had been slept in last night. It was just as pristine and untouched as it had been since yesterday. 

The thought of him sleeping in it alone again from now on made him close his eyes for a second to stave of yet another wave of pain hitting him. Then he braced himself once more, took the ruined shirt and threw it in his closet for now, deciding to take it with him and dispose of when leaving the house. 

Dreading the moment where he would have to face the harsh consequences of his actions he prolonged the inevitable by heading over to the bathroom and wash himself off quickly, removing his rumpled clothes and putting them in a hamper to be taken care of by the housekeeper as he slipped into his bathrobe instead, wrapping it around himself with the comfort it provided with its plushness of the fabric, making his stiff joints relish the warmth if offered as well.

A final look in the mirror at his face, now freshly cleaned and beginning to look like itself again, he steeled himself and left this temporary sanctuary to go see what option his brother had gone for.

With hesitance, considering the man he was, a person who was sure of himself at almost all hours of the day, he walked over to his brother’s room and placed himself in front of the door before knocking on it.

That particular method was usually never answered, whatever the circumstances, Sherlock never caring much for convention, being a man fond of barging into rooms rather than bother with knocking first.   
So the fact that Mycroft didn’t receive an answer was not surprising in the least but perhaps the actions of a coward wishing to prolong the inevitable. 

But, deciding that he wasn’t that coward after all, Mycroft resolutely turned the handle to feel if it was locked or not. 

It wasn’t and the door silently opened to reveal what had been expected all along. 

The room was indeed empty.

He stepped inside to take a look around and could see, by noticing the door to the closet being left ajar, that Sherlock must have gone in here to put on some new clothes. As far as he could see, everything looked the same, the bed still untouched, just like his own, so Sherlock had walked straight out, despite the considerable damage done to him. 

That was troubling. If not tended to, the wounds might become infected, especially in the environments his brother frequented when looking for drugs. 

With a final glance around the room, he stepped out again and closed the door.

Phase two, after having established that Sherlock had not opted to stay here when given the choice to leave, was now to track him down, surmise the damage and then take appropriate action to get his brother under proper care once more.

Locking away the last remnant of memories, regrets and emotions regarding the events of last night, he let his professionalism take charge now, straightening his back and headed for the office to call his PA so she could initiate the search in the usual places Sherlock opted for when succumbing to his addiction. Despite the ungodly hour he knew she would be up and ready quickly enough.

Meanwhile he would make himself presentable by changing into a new set of clothes, try finding something for the uneasiness in his stomach and then leave for work. There was nothing left in this house for him to linger to.

Discarding the bathrobe on his bed, he went about making himself presentable and ready for the events of the day to come.

\---------

It didn’t take much time tracking down the most known bolt holes and drug dens his brother had used in the past. What was surprising and also very alarming was the fact that he wasn’t in any of them.

Mycroft immediately began to fret, the familiar agonising feeling of not knowing where Sherlock was and what he was doing, seeping into his system once more, however reluctantly. He was after all the reason for Sherlock disappearing this time.

By eight o'clock every agent had reported back, and none of them had found his brother. 

Cursing over having thought that the most unpredictable man in Britain would return to old haunts just because it would have been easy, Mycroft realised that he had to start from the beginning and widen his search. 

A possible option, one Sherlock had employed a few times over the years when being particularly keen on flying under his brother’s radar, was to flee abroad, thinking that Mycroft would have a much more difficult time tracking him down.   
That was definitely true and the nightmare it had been of finding him again after the whole disaster with Victor Trevor still sent chills down Mycroft’s spine. 

Considering the ample head start Sherlock had been given, he could already be anywhere in Europe by now. Or worse, anywhere in the world.   
When determined to pull something off, no one was as resourceful as his little brother, despite both lacking the funds to buy himself a ticket and having the disadvantage of being injured. If anyone would be able to get himself out of the country under those conditions it was Sherlock.   
They had never talked about how he managed to travel for six months without Mycroft finding him, especially as his passport and any access to any bank accounts had been off limits, and yet it had been achievable.

Pressing the intercom button, he summoned his PA to put up a new strategy after the initial attempts at tracking Sherlock down had failed. Trying to do his job while feeling the pressure of finding his brother was beginning to take its toll and his tone became increasingly agitated as time went by without results.

“I want all airports, train stations and harbours under surveillance. And I also want people checking the CCTV-feeds from the past ten hours in all the mentioned places. We can’t be sure of the exact time of his disappearance, but ten hours should suffice."

His PA who was used to her employer being very demanding and therefor shouldn’t raise any eyebrows when he asked things of her, still had the audacity to look hesitant about this. 

“But, Sir, that would require a substantial amount of resources, not to mention being very time consuming. I’m not sure it can be…”

“Immediately!” he cut her off without waiting for the rest of her misgivings. 

He was in no mood for any more drawbacks today. His head was already hurting increasingly by the minute and his stress levels, despite not showing it on the surface, were rising, and it wasn’t even lunch yet. 

He had three important meetings he had to partake in before he could try getting something to eat, he was constantly harassed by a group of useless agents reporting back on how utterly unable they were of finding one measly person and then there was the matter of his own body betraying him by suddenly feeling very lacklustre and worn, the events of last night, as well as everything that had happened over the past few weeks, was finally catching up with him, making him feel physically drained.

It was rankling to consider how his brother had developed to perfection the ability to make absolutely everything in Mycroft’s life circle around him. Had he not been so worried, and that weakness he had unfortunately only himself to blame for, he might have decided to let the whole thing take its ample course, knowing that his brother would eventually be found, most likely under the influence of his favourite drug of choice or whatever he had managed to get his hands on and making Mycroft feel stupid for having caused such a fuss in the first place. 

But with how the situation had turned out and the part he himself had played in it, regret yapping away at every turn, he unfortunately was unable not to fret.

Another thought that had crossed his mind and which was equally unpleasant as the idea that Sherlock had fled abroad, was that he had found his way to John Watson’s home and was holed up with him now. 

Mycroft sent agents over to the address he had required the day before, but they reported back that the place was empty.   
It didn’t conclusively mean that Sherlock wasn’t with John, as the doctor wasn’t present either, so Mycroft ordered one of the agents to stay put and keep the place under surveillance and report back as soon as John returned. 

He had no wish whatsoever to speak to that man again, unless he disobeyed Mycroft’s order. If that happened it would be his utter delight to deal with the situation.   
But other than that, he had no further interest in John Watson from now on. That being said, to overlook the possibility that his brother had somehow tracked John down and taken shelter with him, would be inexcusable. When establishing that such a connection hadn’t been made, the man could crawl back under the rock he came from and Mycroft wouldn’t waste another thought on him.

What Mycroft wanted most of all, except for getting his brother back, was to know that Sherlock was alright. Without even putting the physical injuries into consideration, there was much that could have caused Sherlock to derail. 

Surely he hadn’t truly believed that Mycroft would never want to see him again? 

Granted, he had ordered his brother out of the house, but it had been a temporary precaution, not something for Sherlock to take literary. He must know how much Mycroft loved him?   
But the more time that went by without any sight or information about Sherlock’s whereabouts, Mycroft began to wonder if Sherlock had ever truly known how much he meant.

\---------

John was fretting.

Things had not gone quite as he had hoped, and he was beginning to worry that he was in too deep in something he had no control over.

To begin with, Sherlock meeting Jim Moriarty had not gone down well at all.   
Sherlock had no idea who the other man was and had been quite puzzled by finding him in the car when John had waved him over and urged him to get inside. Moriarty on the other hand, apparently remembered Sherlock quite vividly, without going into specific details, and he became very agitated over not being recognised or even acknowledge by Sherlock who had merely given him a quick glance and then ignored him for the rest of the ride, opting for some rest instead. 

The ride took several hours and pretty soon John gave up on trying to locate the whereabouts, opting for some rest as well, while Moriarty, childishly radiating annoyance next to him, was busy with his phone.

Stomping off in a huff as soon as they reached their destination, instructions shouted over his shoulder before disappearing, Moriarty was gone, leaving John to take care of the situation himself. Unsure of what he was supposed to reveal and what was best kept hidden, John opted for not talking much at all, just simply lead Sherlock inside to a small room that had been assigned to him. 

Sherlock himself was unusually quiet, which was worrying considering how he normally behaved and John felt himself becoming anxious that he might have made the wrong decision after all.

A much more worrying aspect was the assault Sherlock had apparently been subjected to by Mycroft after John had left the house. When noticing how stiffly Sherlock moved, he had ordered him to remove his shirt and when seeing the angry lashes all over his back, and by the signs of it, tracing down below the waist of the trousers as well, he had gasped in shock.

Sherlock had not been interested in going into detail about what had transpired after John had left though, he merely mentioned that Mycroft had overacted as usual. What he instead apparently was keen on, was to get something applied to his skin to sooth it. This he incicated without actually saying it, he simply let his trousers drop to the floor, along with the already removed shirt and had then splayed out on top of the bed in the small room where John had taken him, his body on full display in an almost come-hither kind of way, it f it had not been for how injured he was.

John’s mouth had immediately gone dry at the sight.   
Despite the angry lashes marring his skin, Sherlock’s body was still a sight to behold, all long limbs, narrow waist, lithe but also firm, and John became uncomfortably aware of just how long he had suppressed lustful thoughts about Sherlock when his cock started to show some very obvious interest at the sight in front of him.

Clearing his throat and quickly turning his back, he mumbled that he was going to get something to clean the wounds with, without actually knowing if there even was anything like that here, and then he quickly headed out the door.

To his surprise he stumbled upon Moran just right outside, who gave him a knowing smile.

“So, looks like jackpot for you, Watson. I admit it was a bit of a surprise to hear this development, but it was a good decision I think. Things were ready to be taken to next level.”

Why was everyone having opinions about the pace of this mission? It thoroughly annoyed John, he hadn’t been particularly tardy in his own opinion, he could hardly have moved things along faster without raising suspicions.

“I did manage to plant a camera inside the house,” he said curtly.

Moran patted him on the back in encouragement, no idea that this gesture annoyed John even further.

“I know, and good on you! We have actually managed to get a recoding as well. The camera was placed on some garment, am I correct? The angle indicated it was something he wore.”

Oh! John immediately perked up a bit.

“Yes, I put in the hem lining of a bathrobe. I didn’t know if it was his, there were two and they looked more or less identical and no size tags available, but I figured whoever wore it, it could lead to something. What did the recording show?”

“Not much of use at the moment, he put it on, went to knock on a door, then went inside to take a look. But the room was empty so he left. It was probably junior’s room, so he was a bit late noticing his absence. It’s like the boss says, they must have had a serious row for him to lose control over surveillance like that. It’s an unusual lapse on his part.”

“What happened next?” John asked curiously. He was eager to hear if there had been any benefits with the camera after all.

“He went to what must have been his own bedroom, there was a bed inside. There was a bed in the first room as well, but considering the fact that he knocked on the door before entering indicated it couldn’t be his own," Moran said dryly, as if delivering a weather rapport. "He paced around for a couple of minutes, like he was worked up, but then all of a sudden he just stopped, as if the batteries had died or something, pulled off whatever he was wearing and then we lost contact, the camera must have been obscured by fabric or something. So no full view of him naked, getting dressed, unfortunately. That could have been good blackmail material as well: The mighty Mycroft Holmes, stark naked!”

John wasn’t convinced of that being a very good idea, but said nothing further about it and instead asked for help finding something to help treating Sherlock’s wounds.

Moran frowned as John mentioned what Sherlock’s back looked like right now, and then he tutted in disapproval.

“I did tell you that he is a cold-hearted bastard. It still surprising though, I wouldn’t have guessed Mycroft had it in him. Ordering others to do it, sure, but himself being able to deliver a physical punishment like that? That’s really surprising.”

John remembered the force Mycroft had used to push his brother into the wall, and he didn’t have quite as much difficulty believing it.

“Well, you certainly upset the hornet’s nest, Watson. Just be careful to not let him suspect you’re involved in any way or you’ll be running for the rest of your life.”

“How am I supposed to make sure of that? Sherlock is hardly stupid, he will figure it out and that will mean Mycroft will know eventually as well. Besides, if Sherlock is to be used as blackmail material, Mycroft must be informed of us having his brother soon enough?”

“There is no reason for Mycroft finding out that you were in on any of this, if we play our cards right. Moriarty is not interested in sharing that particular honour anyway. And as far as little brother is concerned, no need to worry, it will be taken care of. No one is going to trace this back to you unless you much it up yourself.”

With that Moran left and John remained standing where he was, once again wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into.

Back in the room, with Sherlock still lying as good as naked on the bed, only his pants left on, John decided to take things in stride. First things first, he needed to tend to those wounds.

At first he put his fingers hesitantly around the largest lash, cleaning it up with some water and then padding it with an antiseptic wipe. It felt strange touching someone he had spent so much time thinking about but in reality only had met less than a handful of times. 

He was also beginning to feel tired, the events of yesterday evening having taken a hard toll on him, delivering surprise after surprise like punches in a boxing match. If his thoughts started to drift eventually, calmed by the soothing motions he made on Sherlock’s soft skin combined with his own fatigue, he was abruptly snapped out if by Sherlock suddenly turning his head to look at him, with that catlike gleam in his eyes that usually meant something unexpected was about to happen.

“So, final piece of the puzzle, this,” he said.

John froze in the middle of a movement, puzzled.

“What do you mean?”

“You of course. I did wonder, and admittedly you have kept me entertained by not being too obvious about your intentions from the beginning.”

John felt like the bottom of his stomach had just fallen out, that same sensation you got when riding a really fast roller-coaster and not being prepared for what it would actually feel like despite knowing fully well what you had climbed into at the beginning of the ride.

Had he been so obvious in with his lust-addled thoughts? Had Sherlock somehow sensed that he was beginning to grow hard inside his pants just by the proximity to his naked body? 

They had kissed of course so it couldn’t be a complete surprise that John was interested in him, but none of them had even mentioned it since it happened, so many other things coming between them.

But him kissing Sherlock surely must have indicated that he was at least little smitten, right? How was that the final puzzle piece of anything?

But apparently Sherlock wasn’t talking about John’s libido at all, because when he continued, languidly turning his neck back so his face was half-way pressed against the pillow once more, it was regarding something completely different:

“He makes you nervous, that boss of yours, you show all the signs of feeling like a fish out of water. Is it your first time meeting him?”

John slowly removed his hands, putting them in his lap instead.

He wondered what he was supposed to say to that. Him and Moriarty hadn’t said a word in the car to indicate what the relationship between them was, but knowing Sherlock, he had probably deduced it by some small detail, like how they were sitting next to each other or some other obscure aspect that only a person like Sherlock would be able to decipher.

Realising that it would be futile to lie, John decided to be as truthful as possible without incriminating himself too much.

“Yes, last night was the first time we met.”

“And you’re not sure where you stand with him, yet. I can understand that; he seems a bit... _erratic_.”

“Well, he isn’t the only one,” John mused, unable to let that one slip by and despite not being able to see Sherlock’s face fully, he could sense the hint of a smile and it sent a warm sensation inside of him. But that was immediately quenched by the following sentence:

“And this is a kidnapping scenario of sorts, I assume?”

John immediately lashed out in denial.

“What?! No!”

Once again Sherlock turned his head to look at him, scepticism evident in his eyes now.

“Oh, _really_? What is this place then? The Good Samaritan’s Club? Somewhere where you can be treated for your injuries on a soft bed with your own personal doctor on call? Not likely. Besides, Isn’t this what you wanted all along?”

John felt himself go cold all over as panic was beginning to flush over him, blocking his ability to think rationally. What was he supposed to say now? Was his cover blown already? 

To his surprise Sherlock didn’t look angry or disappointed. He was merely pointing out a fact.   
The calmness his exuded made John decide that the wisest choice for him to get out of this mess with even an inkling of dignity left, was to be honest with Sherlock. He wouldn’t offer up the whole story but he wasn’t going to lie and risk causing even further damage to the situation. If he had been the one subjected to all this, he would certainly have felt betrayed by now, but if Sherlock was feeling any resentments, he wasn’t letting it on.

“How long have you known?” John finally asked.

“Since the beginning.” Sherlock answered calmly.

“What?!”

To his dismay John couldn’t help but feel deceived himself when hearing this. What had been the point of keeping up this charade if Sherlock had figured out who he was from the start?

“I didn’t know everything of course,” Sherlock continued, while he stretched out now, turning on his side so they could see each other properly. A small wince crossing his face indicated that the movement had caused him some discomfort. “As I said, the final piece of the puzzle came just now. But that you weren’t who you pretended to be was obvious from the first evening we met. The next time you attempt something like this, work on the details a little better. And take some acting classes.”

John couldn’t hold back the affronted tone in his voice when hearing this.

“Why did you just let it go on then, if you knew that I had ulterior motives?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Curiosity. I wasn’t completely sure who you were and what you wanted from me. I just knew that you were lying and that you were trying to establish some sort of connection with me. I had some initial ideas of why you had sought me out, but I always find it better to base conclusions on logic and cold hard facts, not on guess work. The final piece came now. It’s a kidnapping attempt and who you’re trying to get to is my brother.”

John didn’t know what to say. Everything was suddenly out in the open and he felt ashamed for his part in this, despite him only having accepted a simple job like he had done numerous times before without cocking it up like this. He wasn’t used to feeling this exposed.

But finally he nodded, all but uttering the actual words that yes, this had all been about getting to Mycroft and John had used Sherlock mercilessly to achieve it.

As if suddenly bored with it all, Sherlock turned away again and snorted lightly.

“Well, good luck with it, because it’s not going to succeed.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft continues his search, John finds out some shocking news and Sherlock meets an old friend.

John didn’t say anything more, simply rose abruptly from the bed and headed out of the room after Sherlock had turned away from him again, leaving the water and antiseptics behind on the table next to bed. Not that Sherlock would be able to reach the wounds on his back even if he had wanted to tend to them on his own, John just felt that he had to get out of the room, quickly. He needed to find Moran or even more preferably, Moriarty, to tell him that Sherlock had figured it all out.

The building was a veritable mace of doors and empty rooms but eventually he stumbled upon a man who he ordered to bring him to the boss immediately.

Moriarty was lounging on an artificially sunlit balcony with a glass roof over it, splayed out beneath a parasol, sunglasses on and a fruit punch of all things, in his hand. He had a pair of headphones in his ears and was apparently relaxing to his heart content, as if having a crime syndicate as well as a freshly acquired kidnapping victim in the basement was no cause for stress. 

John wondered what the punishment for disturbing your boss when he was having a little me-time would be, but decided that he didn’t care, this had to be reported. So he resolutely marched up to the sunbed until he was casting a shadow over the man lying on it, causing him to pull out his headphones eventually. 

“Ah, Doc! How’s Sexy Holmes doing? Moran tells me he has acquired an intricate set of new stripes to his back. Courtesy of Big brother. Moran is still baffled that the stuffy old lump has it in him to do it himself, but we know better, don’t we, Johnny?”

Waiving the nonsense away, John wasted no time and cut to the matter of concern immediately.

“We have a problem. A big problem as a matter of fact.”

Moriarty tilted his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose so he could take a closer look at John. 

“Oh, really? Yes, I can see you’re all worked up, Johnny. Whatever is the matter? Sherlock not letting you inside his pants?”

“What? No!”

John was taken aback by the flippancy for a second, losing his train of thought.

“No? Want daddy to fix it for you? Make him be more manageable perhaps? Although I do think that was the lesson his brother was trying to teach him just a few hours ago, some people apparently never learn.”

Unintentionally, more out of reflex than actual thought behind it, John clenched his fists, anger rising in him now, a thing Moriarty immediately noticed and tutted mockingly at.

“Temper, temper…I was just trying to figure out what it could be that had your knickers in a twist, and it came quite naturally for me to assume it would involve Sherlock and your hankering for him in some form. But if I’m mistaken, please continue, Doctor.”

Narrowing his eyes but biting back every attempt at giving a waspish reply, John took a deep breath before continuing with what he had meant to say from the beginning.

“I wanted to inform you that Sherlock knows.”

“About what?”

“This! All of it. That he is kidnapped, that we are going to use him to get to his brother, that I was in on it from the beginning. _Everything_!” 

Moriarty snorted before he pushed his sunglasses back up and took a sip of his drink before he answered.

“Well, of course he knows. He is _Sherlock Holmes_ , for Christ’s sake! What did you expect? Or have you not been paying attention these past couple of weeks?”

John looked baffled. What did he mean? What the hell was going on here?

“I don’t understand?”

Moriarty peered at him.

“What part of it?”

“Not any part!”

“Well, you put it quite simply yourself. Sherlock Holmes knows why he is here and what we intend to use him for, because he figured you out a long time ago, Doctor. What’s there not to understand?”

John finally bristled, not caring that the man with the fruit punch and the sunglasses, lounging in front of him like he was experiencing a vacation on Ibiza, was both his boss, as well as a ruthless crime lord.

“If you have known all along that he knew about me having an agenda, then why the hell did you put me through this charade of getting to know him in the first place? What was even the point?! ”

“The point was to achieve exactly this. Mycroft Holmes thrown off balance on account of his insane jealousy and possessiveness over another man appearing in his brother’s life, creating a wedge between the Holmes’s and then take advantage of the situation while the guard is down.”

“You can’t have foreseen all of this!” John protested. “That Mycroft would kidnap me in his car, invite me to dinner to his house, lash out at both me and Sherlock and then subject his brother to an unfathomable amount of assault, causing Sherlock to flee. It’s simply not possible!”

Moriarty pulled a face, still not showing any signs of taking John’s words seriously.

“Not the specific details perhaps, those were always going to be unpredictable. But the gist of it, of course we knew. Because Mycroft Holmes was _always_ going to react badly to an interloper coming between him and his precious little brother, and Sherlock was _always_ going to rebel against his brother’s possessiveness when beginning to feel suffocated by it. It’s what they do, what they always have done.”

“But I still don’t understand,…”

“Cleary,” Moriarty remarked dryly, taking yet another sip of his drink.

“…was Mycroft actually reacting the way he did because of the _kiss_? The fact that I kissed his brother is the reason for those angry stripes on Sherlock’s back? That’s insane!”

“Well, he is very territorial, our Mycroft. And honestly, wouldn’t you get upset as well if you saw your younger, quite frankly gorgeously attractive partner kiss another man? Never punched someone out of jealousy, have you?”

“But it’s his _brother_. That isn’t the same as being cheated on by a boyfriend or a spouse.”

Moriarty sighed that frustrated sigh that indicated that he thought John was an idiot.

“Johnny-boy, how did you ever get through Medical School with that limited amount of intelligence? Those two have been fucking since the age of dawn, or at least since Sherlock became legal of age. Or legal-ish perhaps, I’m sure it’s all a bit of a blur and who’s really counting anyway?”

And right then, before Moriarty had even finished the whole sentence, it felt like the whole world came crashing down around John, shock fighting for dominance over the very uncomfortable feeling that he had perhaps been staring at this puzzle for a long time without actually wanting to acknowledge that the picture wasn’t even remotely close to his perception of reality. 

The puzzlement he had felt over Mycroft’s intense control over his brother already from the beginning, the way Mycroft had so resolutely frog-marched Sherlock after the concert into the car without facing any real resistance, how he had the whole CCTV-system at his disposal to keep tabs on one wayward little brother, and then, the incident with the spoon of course and the way it had made John feel so uncomfortable seeing it, as if watching something private between two people. And Mycroft’s smugness afterwards, how he had pointedly looked at John like he had just succeeded in marking his territory. 

There had been a myriad of signs, right in front of him.

Not to mention the way Sherlock had just accepted all of it. That should perhaps have been the biggest clue of all.   
Complaining while doing it of course, but in the end he had always stepped out of the shadows and back alleys so the cameras could catch him and his brother pick him up in one his black cars. He had allowed himself to be locked-up inside the house, he had accepted that proffered spoon and he had participated in that twisted game just as much as Mycroft had.

It had all been there, straight under John’s nose and he had missed it all. Or chosen not to see. It was difficult to tell afterwards. 

He now wished that he hadn’t been so eager to fool himself, but lust was a strong motivator, as Mycroft would certainly agree with, and John had so desperately wanted to see something between himself and Sherlock, so much perhaps that it had clouded his judgement about everything else. 

“So, what you’re saying is that they are two brother’s who have sex with each other?” he finally said in a hissed whisper, unable to gain control over his voice properly. He was still reeling from the shock.

“Oh, don’t be so crass. I’m sure there’s love involved somewhere, even in the heart of a veritable glacier like Mycroft. He’s certainly very passionate when someone is trying to steal his brother away from him. Well, you saw it yourself. When provoked, he will send hellfire after you. Or worse. It was in the file we gave you after all, didn't you read about what happened to the Trevor bloke.”

To John’s utter disbelief there was actually still a possibility to be even more shocked than he already was apparently.

“Wait what? That was Mycroft’s doing?”

Moriarty let out a surprised little laugh, like he couldn’t believe how John still was unable to grasp the situation.

“Of course. Trevor dared to steal Sherlock away from him. Not once, but twice! Trevor should have stayed away after the first time, but apparently Sherlock is just _soooo_ irresistible.”

“So Mycroft ruined another person, just because he was dating his brother?”

“Just so. You should count yourself lucky, I’d say,. It could have been much worse.”

John sat down heavily on the edge of the sunbed, suddenly unable to grasp anymore, his legs going weak beneath him. Moriarty pursed his lips in disapproval but at the same time he seemed mildly amused as well, so he didn’t say anything about it. 

John shook his head as if trying to clear out his thoughts, because inside of him, everything was a veritable mess at the moment.

“So, what you’re telling me is that you used me as some sort of bait to provoke Mycroft enough to become jealous and alienate his brother in the process by becoming even more possessive out of fear of losing him?”

Before Moriarty could answer him, he continued, speaking more to himself than to the other man.

“This was never about obtaining information or getting access to Mycroft’s house? It was all just….a game?”

“Oh no, you misunderstand. We are still very interested in that list of members that Mycroft has. And we are intending to get our hands on it. But, of course it would be futile trying to get that information simply by sneaking around in his house like some second-rate spy, snooping for a mislaid piece of paper. What did you actually think? That someone like Mycroft Holmes would have a document with the letters classified stamped on it, just lying out in the open for you to take a peek at? There probably isn’t even a physical list, he wouldn’t need one. Mycroft has that enormous brain of his, an eidetic memory and a perfectly organised mind. I know, it sounds so boring, but there you have it. There never was a list, we simply want the information and for that to happen, we need Mycroft to give it to us himself.”

John still couldn't wrap his head around this.  
.  
“But what was the point of me planting the camera then?”

Moriarty shrugged before he finished his drink and put the glass down on the floor next to his feet, the purple umbrella twirling alone in the slosh at the bottom of it.

“Well, we had to give you something to do, so you would feel useful while conducting what you were really there to do. Trying to hide your true intentions from Sherlock, you would be forced to lie in that terrible way you do, making Sherlock immediately figure out that there was something fishy about you and that in turn would keep his interest in you active, provoking his brother even further. And also, a hidden camera has the added bonus of perhaps procuring us some private snaps of Mycroft doing things he only does in private, things no one else is privy to. Just imagine if we manage to get footage of him wanking or clipping his toenails! That would be _awesome!_ ” 

Moriarty was positively gleeful right now, going straight for an over the top theatrical mood, americanizing his normal Irish lilt. It was difficult to say if he was simply mocking or actually giddy over the prospect of catching Mycroft Holmes perform various domestic chores. 

“Perhaps he has some little lady doing that for him. He seems like the kind of person that would enjoy sitting in a winged-back chair while some measly servant is down on her knees in front of him with the clippers, probably gathering the nail clippings in a little jar afterwards to donate to science. Or perhaps for his little brother to use in one of his bizarre experiments.”

He let out a high-pitched cackle and leaned back again on the sunbed, clearly entertained by this thought.

John suddenly felt like he had had enough. 

He rose, swaying a bit, before he resolutely straightened himself up. Then he simply walked away.   
If Moriarty had anything more to say, John wasn’t willing to hear it.

\----------

It was almost three o’clock now and no one was any closer to having information about Sherlock. He had not been spotted by any cameras, the agents watching the airports, train stations and harbours had seen no one resembling him, trying to embark on a journey, and when Mycroft called to check on the agent keeping John’s house under watch, he was met with this report:

“John Watson has not been visible in the vicinity of his home since we began keeping it under surveillance.”

That was strange. 

The same time Sherlock disappeared; John Watson chose to do the same?   
That was too convenient to be a coincidence. Mycroft was beginning to suspect that John Watson could not yet be ruled out as a participant in this situation.

“Well, track him down then. I have his phone number, that must be traceable, I assume?”

But to his disappointment the agent did not supply him with a satisfactory answer.

“The technicians are already on it, Sir. But the phone is apparently not in an operative capacity any longer. We have not been able to locate it. My guess is that he must be somewhere where the signal is being blocked. Even a turned off phone usually can provide us with something, but it’s like it never existed. When Tech gave you the transcripts of the text conversation between Doctor Watson and your brother, they downloaded everything that was available on it. Contacts, a few pictures and so forth, but the rest was deleted. There was no back logs of phone calls being made or texts sent or received. Even the browsing history was gone. At the time they focused on the task you had given them, which was to regain the texts to and from your brother, Sir. And now, the phone is no longer traceable for us to do anything else with.”

Mycroft sighed in irritation. No one was ever able to think a few steps ahead apparently!

“Well give me what they’ve got then. Contact list and the photos and whatever else they managed to think of procuring.”

“Fine, Sir. I’ll tell them to send it over immediately.”

Less than half an hour later he was offered what the technician’s had to provide him with and, pouring himself three fingers of Laphroaig Whiskey, he then seated himself down with heaviness behind his desk to take a look. 

Going through the meagre content of Doctor John Watson’s phone proved to be a quick affair and at the same time causing alarm bells to go off more distinctly at the back of Mycroft’s head as he realised what that fact indicated. 

A man who had the habit of purging his phone of everything and was now off the grid to the extent that his phone signal was now conveniently blocked, leaving him utterly untraceable, at the same time when his brother was also missing, that wasn’t just strange, it was straight out suspicious.

The contact list wasn’t extensive, and Mycroft put his PA on the task to check all the numbers and come back with a list of names as well as a short description of who they were, while trying to let the Whiskey work its magic to calm his frazzled nerves. 

Leafing through the results she came back with, there was nothing of interest. 

A few acquaintances from John watson's army days, as well as from Medical school, one Colonel Sebastian Moran, a Dr Michael Stamford, a Sergeant Bill Murray, a Major James Sholto and so forth. His sister, Harriet Watson, a woman named Clara Spencer who had apparently been engaged to the sister for a few years but was now living in Doncaster with a new girlfriend. A woman by the name of Ella Thompson who was John’s therapist and then the odd number of take away restaurants. It was a sad little round up of numbers that led Mycroft nowhere in his search. 

Even digging a little deeper into the people who were supposedly John's small group of friends and aquintances had shown nothing out of the ordinary. As Mycroft had no back log available he couldn’t see how often John had contact with these men, but the first three where living ordinary lives. The Sergeant still active within the army, stationed in Syria at the moment. Colonel Moran had become a civialian and was now working as an accountant on a small firm in Northern London, while Doctor Stanford was a professor at S:t Bart’s Hospital, John's own alma mater. All three were bachelors, living in the suburbs and with no indication that they knew of each other, the only connection being that they once shared education or line of work with John. 

The Major was perhaps the one who garnered Mycroft’s biggest interest as he was living more or less like a recluse on the countryside after a military debacle involving the demise of a group of crows during an ambush in Afghanistan. He had apparently been rewarded a Victoria Cross for his bravery, but it had caused controversy considering the deaths of the rest of the group, a group he had been in charge of. But further digging into that situation led to nothing more, he was simply a very lonely man, isolated for life on account of unpredicted circumstances, nothing else and John had apparently not talked to him for over two years now.

And this was the extension of John Watson’s social life, at least according to his phone. 

There were also four measly pictures. One of Dr Stanford and John in a group photo of what was assumedly a class reunion. One of Harriet Watson with a plastered on, falsified smile. One lewd picture of a barely covered up arse in a tight pair of speedos and then finally a picture of a dog eating an ice cream.   
It was frankly ludicrous and contained nothing for Mycroft to use.   
Was this was people normally had on their phones? If so, no wonder the world was looking the way it did!

He was beginning to despair now. 

There was literary no trace of Sherlock anywhere and the risk of this beginning to look like the Trevor-situation all over again was imminent. Outwardly he still presented the stone-cold mask of indifference, he went to his meetings, ate his food, talked to colleagues and read his rapports, talked to the agents that came with useless news of no findings, but inside, he felt like screaming. 

Where the hell was his brother? 

Why didn’t he let himself be found again?   
Had something actually happened to him or was he still punishing Mycroft for last night?   
If so, then Mycroft was thoroughly punished by now, guilt and worry eating him up inside. He was beginning to feel like he was losing his mind, anxiety creeping in through every pore of his body. Taking a few deep breaths while trying to calm himself enough to be reasonable, he then steeled himself and reached for his phone, calling to hear the latest update of the search, hoping fervently but logically already knowing, there would be nothing new to report.

\----------

John wandered about for a long time after leaving Moriarty, his thoughts buzzing like the inside of a beehive.

He still couldn’t believe how this had all turned out. It had all been just a huge morass of lies from the very beginning, not only his own lies to Sherlock that had kept him so worried lately, but literary everything had turned out to be something completely different. He had been used as part of a plan he hadn’t known existed and now it seemed like everyone else had known all along, watching him bumbling about in his ignorance like some poor sod. 

Technically he could see the irony of feeling betrayed, he had lied from the very beginning to Sherlock och then fretted over how he would feel when finding out about it, but now it seemed as if the tables were turned and that actually smarted. 

The person he felt most betrayed by was Moran. He had been an actual friend from John's past, someone he had learned to trust and appreciate over time, but Moran had stringed him along from the start, his loyalty clearly being with Moriarty instead of an old army buddy. 

No wonder he had prodded into the subject of John falling for Sherlock, because he had known all along what the end game was all about.

John had just been a silly patsy, someone used to rouse an emotional weakness in a man that on the surface seemed impenetrable and cold-hearted but had one big secret weakness. His job had been to trick Mycroft into losing his focus enought to fractionally weaken and be vulnerable for attack.

John wondered how Mycroft felt right now. 

Was he still angry or had he begun to worry?   
Sherlock had after all vanished and that had never gone down well with the older brother before.   
Was the whole brigade of a search party out there looking for Sherlock right now, cameras scouring the streets, those black cars out looking? 

John felt like he actually could relate.   
Had Sherlock been his and had somehow disappeared, John would have done his outmost to find him again as well. 

What rankled him the most about this situation though, was that Sherlock apparently was _Mycroft’s_ in every sense of the word, not only as a brother. That thought made John's stomach churn uncomfortably and it was perhaps what made this whole situation so nauseating for him. 

They were brothers and they had been conducting a sexual relationship right under John’s nose and he hadn’t seen a thing! He, like a fool, had lingered to hopes of Sherlock perhaps reciprocating his feelings while the brothers secretly had been fucking behind his back all along, however incomprehensible that idea actually was. 

What was even more confusing was that it had felt like there had been a spark between him and Sherlock. He knew he couldn’t have imagined it, there _had_ been something. 

They had shared a good repoire between them and they had even kissed for fuck’s sake!   
What had that been all about if Sherlock was so attached to his brother that he was prepared to share his bed?

Suddenly a thought hit him.

What if Sherlock had grown tired of Mycroft or even worse, been coerced to be a part of this very unhealthy relationship? 

What was it Moriarty had said about the origin of their sexual connection? That it had been going on since Sherlock had become legal or at least “legal-ish”. 

What did that mean exactly? Had a young Sherlock been tricked into sleeping with a much older Mycroft and then been unable to leave or end it because Mycroft wouldn’t let him? 

It was certainly a possibility. 

Maybe that thing with Victor Trevor had been Sherlock’s way of trying to break away from Mycroft but his brother had retaliated so forcefully by ruining Victor’s life that Sherlock never made the attempt to leave him again after that? 

John shook his head, this was all too much. 

It was definitely a plausible idea, but the only two people able to answer that question were Sherlock or Mycroft. Mycroft wasn’t really an option. He would most likely kill John if he ever stepped near him again, especially if finding out about all of this. 

But Sherlock on the other hand, he was right here, in a small room in a building in the middle of nowhere and John figured that it might be well due to have a little talk to him and see how the situation actually was.

Determinedly he headed for the room in the basement. But before reaching it, he bumped into Moran again. 

Was that man constantly stalking around wherever John was? Or had he perhaps been to see Sherlock?

Before he had the chance to say anything, Moran beat him to it.

“The boss is seeing Holmes at the moment, so you’ll have to wait your turn.”

This instantly rankled John. Why was everyone treating him like some smitten schoolgirl with a silly crush, as if he was positively gagging to be in Sherlock’s presence at all times?   
Not that there wasn’t a smudge of truth to it, but he positively hated to feel like he was the bud of some idiotic joke when it came to the others. 

“I wasn’t thinking of going to see him,” he lied. “I was just strollling around for a bit, I ‘m pretty knackered after last night. Do you know if there is somewhere I could kip for an hour perhaps?”

Moran nodded, a small smirk playing on his lips, clearly not believing him but not going to point it out either.

“Sure, I’ll show you.”

“What time is it by the way?”

John pulled out his phone to check, his eyes automatically gliding over to see that there was still no reception here. He had noticed before but thought that it had perhaps been something temporary.

Moran noticed him look and chuckled.

“We have a cell phone blocking devise activated, so you won’t get a signal, no matter how many times you pull out that phone. Does it matter what time it is? You’ve got somewhere you need to be or what?”

“No,” John muttered and put it back in his pocket. 

They were apparently truly isolated now.

As Moran was leading him through the corridors John wondered if Moriarty had filled Moran in on the latest and how amenable Moran would be to speak more candidly with John considering their good working relationship this past year.  
He decided to try by asking a question that been nagging him since even before finding out that nothing was actually what he had believed it to be.

“You said earlier that Sherlock would not be able to tell Mycroft about us unless we somehow mucked it up ourselves. What did you mean by that? Why would he not tell, the moment he gets out of here?”

“I believe I said, if _you_ don’t muck it up. And as far as junior is concerned, he won’t tell his brother because he’s not going to get back to him.”

John whipped his head to look at Moran.

“What do you mean?

“We're going to take him with us once we’re finished. The boss is for some reason utterly fascinated by him. I guess it’s a thing that goes around right now. Like the bloody measles. I think that junior’s just a spoiled brat with too much time on his hands and a laissez faire-attitude, but I’m not in charge here so it’s not really up to me what we do to him.”

John tried to wrap his head about yet another new twist he had not been privy too, when Moran delivered the final blow.

“So if I were you, I’d make the most of your time with him, because when this is over and the boss leaves with him, you’re not coming with. We have a new job coming up soon where we need you to be in charge. See it as good way of leaving Mycroft Holmes as well as the rest of this mission behind you and move on.”

Moran came to a halt in front of a door and opened it while making a nodding gesture.

“You can kip in here. Not too long, though. Then you need to talk to Holmes. We need to make contact with his brother and show him what we got.”

With that he turned and walked away, leaving John to care for himself. 

He opted to go straight for the bed and collapse on it. He was utterly exhausted and despite wondering if he would even be able to fall asleep considering the veritable hurricane of thoughts swirling inside his head, it didn’t take long before he succumbed into a heavy slumber.

\----------

Sherlock was sitting with his back to the door when it opened, and someone came in.

He almost instantly knew who it was and sighed inwardly. 

He was certainly not up to his usual game, his body had made sure of that. Pain, hunger and lack of thorough sleep instead of the odd nap, had begun to affect his mind as well and he felt a little sluggish, a notion he absolutely hated, used as he was to be sharp as a whip. But, it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter and if this man wanted to come play, he had no other option but to let him.

But he wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of appearing eager to do it, so instead of turning around to face his visitor he remained seated where he was. 

He could hear the soft steps approaching behind his back and waited. 

As a boy he had once been lying under a huge oak tree during one of those endless summers where time was so abundant it felt like it would never end and he had been on the verge of becoming bored on account of having nothing to entertain himself with, stuck with his parents at home for ages, Mycroft making the odd appearance but otherwise having a very lonely existence. 

As he had been busy wallowing in his own misery he had suddenly been disturbed by movement at the corner of his eye, and when turning his head to see what it was, he had seen an adder, or a _Vipera Berus_ as he knew they were called in Latin, slithering towards him in the grass. 

He had actually stifled, but not exactly from fear. It had been more a mixed combination of fascination, caution, as well as anticipation. He knew addders were poisonous although the venom wasn't likely to kill him, but it still wouldn’t be very pleasant to be bitten. 

Moriarty stepping into his room was pretty much the same sensation as he had felt when seeing that adder getting closer and closer. Moriarty wasn’t likely to kill him, but if he decided to bite, and there was a huge risk of him doing that, it would be highly unpleasant. 

“Ah, Sherlock..." he could hear that familiar Irish lilt singsong from somewhere in his periphery. "Always so head strong, even when being the underdog of a situation. I like the tenacity though. It’s what makes it so uniquely you after all.”

Sherlock expected to feel the mattress dip from the weight of the other man sitting down next to him, especially as there wasn’t a window to stand regally in front of and appear to gaze through, with a dignified indifference, a stance he knew his brother favoured when wanting to signal to everyone in the room that he was the one in charge. But instead, Moriarty went for the unexpected option by planting himself against the wall opposite Sherlock instead, crossing his ankles jauntily, hands in pockets, as if coming to a stop after a leisurely stroll. 

Sherlock supposed he was expected to take a good look at him, it was what the other man waited for after all. So he raised his eyes and let them take a quick sweep, gathering whatever he hadn’t already noticed at the backseat of the car. 

He knew it had irritated Moriarty that he had claimed not to remember him, not acknowledging him whatsoever. Sherlock had seen the flash of fury in those brown eyes, but as they were nothing compared to the fury to be seen in the blue eyes of his brother at times, it hadn’t bothered him. Not now. 

He had no doubt that Moriarty could cause enough mayhem to ruin a nation if he wanted to and care none for the casualty, but right at this moment, Sherlock could well afford to play the intransigent card. 

Gathering the information he acquired during the second-long deductive gaze, hiding under the pretence of indifference, he could sum up that Jim Moriarty, or _James_ , as he had once called himself, hadn’t changed too much over the years. 

Perhaps he was a little softer in the flesh, likely on account of sitting hunched over a computer during a large amount of the day and never having been a person who enjoyed exercise in the first place. He wasn’t like Mycroft by any means, who had a distinct extra padding around his middle but wore it with dignity.   
This was more a case of a once scrawny person adding some flesh to his bones by his chosen life style, but perhaps not having noticed the changes himself yet, therefore his suit strained a little, the smallest hint of a belly protruding under the jacket. His confident body language confirmed that he wasn't aware of that fact. Because a man of his vanity would abhor to acknowledge such a mishap in his appearance. 

The hair was still as dark as Sherlock remembered it, beginning to recede a bit at the temples but otherwise pretty much the same hair style as back then. He looked like a more polished version of the man he had once been, with an expensive suit, still the same taste though, which was to say that the price mattered more than the actual look, bordering on nouveau riche, and wasn’t that telling?

Some added lines under the eyes, a puffiness to the face and some shade of a stubble he probably cultivated with a millimetre exactness to make it look the right amount of casual and cool and it did suit him better than the cleanshaven look he had opted for in the past. 

Satisfied with his summary, Sherlock turned his eyes away from the man again, and pointedly gave his own hands a full inspection instead, placing a mask of disinterest on his face. 

Moriarty was not deterred by this act.

“I heard your brother acquired you a new thought-provoking lesson in the form of some quite painful stripes across your back, if our mutual friend and doctor is to be believed. Tested his last resolve, did you? I can just see it in front of me actually, how those cheeks of his quivered with positive rage while lashing out. What did he use? Was it something unconventional like a riding crop or a curtain strap or did he make it really personal and used his own belt?”

Without actually seeing it Sherlock sensed how he somehow must have shown some tell-tale sign, because Moriarty purred in delight.

“Ah, so belt it was then. Well, they are quite useful when handled properly and I’m sure he’s had plenty of practise growing up with a brother like you.”

Sherlock still didn’t say anything, he just sat there quietly and thought about that adder.

“What do you make of that new friend of yours? A doctor no less. That’s a step up from the company you used to keep,” he could Moriarty natter on in the background.

That adder had made it all the way over to his arm which had been lying on open display in the grass, the thin arm of a boy of ten, sticking out of the sleeve of a too big t-shirt. Pale skin, a bruise over the radius from where he had accidentally hit it against something the day before. He always bruised so easily back then.   
The snake's head had touched his skin and he had forced himself not to flinch. Sudden movements could provoke an attack, biting him. So he had held his breath and waited.

“I hear you haven’t amounted to much since the last time I saw you. And despite what you claim, you _must_ remember me, you can’t have blown all your synapses on drugs, Sherlock.”

Sherlock willed himself to not respond. It was all meant to provoke. A little man in a garish suit and a wolfish grin, wishing to see him react. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Don’t pretend to be so high and mighty, that’s your brother’s department, dear. But unlike you, he actually _has_ some importance attached to his name. We both know what you are beneath the public school education and posh boy exterior. You might be out of the gutter for now, but a whore is still whore however much you clean them up and put on some nice clothes, and it will always be a person who sells themselves short for money at the end of the day. But for you it was a few grams of coke if I remember correctly.”

Sherlock let out a theatrical sigh, letting his attention come up to the surface for a second.

“Where you always this boring or has that developed over time? I have such difficulty remembering you clearly. Almost as if you didn’t manage to make enough of a memorable impression.” Sherlock couldn’t help it, he had to say something and he rembered the adder, slithering up his arm, the feel of its scales against his skin, goosebumps breaking out all over. He had waited for it to strike with tense anticipation and he waited now as well.

For a second he was almost certain it would happen, anger flashing in Moriarty’s eyes and he steeled himself fow what would come. But then, as if shaking it all off again, Moriarty grinned gleefully once more.

“Ah, there he is! The Sherlock we all love and recognise! With the acerbic tongue and the prickly personality. The little junkie in the scruffy clothes and bouncy curls, with a larger than life attitude who never could shut up, no matter how many drugs raced through your system. Do you remember how you almost gagged with that homeless man's cock down your throat? Such _memories_! The things I could make you do for the meagre prize of a zip bag of goodies. We are going to have so much fun, you and I. We can even send your brother some pictures if you want, let him know you’re perfectly alive and still not thinking about him. Wasn’t that how you phrased it back then? _I have a brother who’s been searching for me for months. Sometimes I’m tempted to send him a postcard and tell him how I still don’t think about him._ Does that still apply?”

Internally Sherlock closed his eyes at the memory, outwardly he was still looking at his hands. 

It had been in Galway of all places. While crashing down from a high, the experience had involved meeting a very special man during one very long an eventful night. Sherlock had done things for drugs that he had always promised himself he would never succumb to. James, as the other man had called himself, clad in a leather jacket and ratty jeans, slimmer back then, but the same sharp face and keen eyes as now, had kept him entertained for the whole night. He had tested Sherlock's limits by coming up with tasks for him to accomplish, like shoplifting, cutting the inside of his wrist with a knife, giving that homeless man a blowjob, hotwiring a car and so forth, being rewarded with small bags of delicious poisonous powder. 

Things had been shared between them, words said and secrets told, and despite his lapse in judgement and lack of sense, Sherlock actually did remembered some of it. 

They had talked about different types of crimes for some reason and Sherlock had known that James was one of the gang leaders in town and James had known that Sherlock knew, but none of them had said anything about it out loud and it hadn’t mattered either. They had clicked somehow, two brilliant minds clashing in that old abandoned warehouse next to the tracks outside Galway, one warm summer night, some years back.   
When James fell asleep Sherlock had left, regret already starting to grip his insides, wishing he hadn’t talked so much about himself. Or about his brother. 

The last thing he did was to pickpocket all the cash James had kept in the vallet inside his back pocket. With that money Sherlock had bought himself a ticket out of Ireland, heading for France as quickly as possible. Mycroft had caught up to him a month later.

Suddenly Moriarty pushed away from the wall and bent down to really look at Sherlock’s face up close.

“It’s not many people who can claim to have broken the same heart as many times as you have. Going for the final blow this time, make sure to savour it, because I’m taking you with me as I go and you’ll never see him again,” he said as if sensing that Sherlock was thinking about Mycroft.

Moriarty tried searching for Sherlock’s eyes to meet his own, but Sherlock stubbornly refused, turning his face away and his thoughts going back to that adder again. 

Either giving up or changing his mind, Moriarty suddenly rose and left, the door closing quietly behind him. 

For some reason Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling that he had come out of this fairly unharmed. He had felt the same way that summer when he was ten and the adder, after having slithered its way across his torso, had continued down to the other side, silently disappearing into the grass again. 

Sherlock remembered how he had remained where he was, outstretched on his back, looking up at the majectic branches of the tree above his head, shivering for a good five minutes.

This time, in this room, he didn’t shiver though. He was dead calm and focused.   
He wasn’t scared.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for an escape is being made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the final chapter was so long that I decided to do add another chapter instead, the final installment is coming very soon.

John woke with a jolt, as if something had woken him up, but as he looked around, he was lying alone on a bed in a room he at first didn’t recognize.  
But as sleep was beginning to releasee it’s grip of him and his thoughts kicked into gear once more, it all came crashing back.

Sherlock and Mycroft...

Mycroft luring a young Sherlock into having sex with him? It was possible.  
Then refusing to let him go, keeping him in that tragic constellation, against his wishes with all the power at his disposal? 

After having slept on it John was even more convinced that this must be how it truly was. The urge to speak to Sherlock overwhelmed him and he jumped out of bed, drew a hand over his still sleepy face and then headed for the door.  
He needed to find Sherlock and talk to him. If nothing else, he could perhaps talk him into leaving Mycroft.   
It wouldn’t be easy, but at least they had managed to get out from the man’s grasp for now. 

The much more looming difficulty wasn't really Mycroft, but rather Moriarty. John needed to make sure that his boss didn’t take Sherlock with him wherever he was headed after the mission was over.   
John wasn’t willing to let go of Sherlock just yet, and he needed to really come up with a clever solution if he was to trick not only one powerful man, but _two_ , from getting their way.

\-----------------

Mycroft was being driven home after a frankly terrible and draining day at the office, having been forced to pretend that all was as it should, while all he thought about when not occupied by work, was Sherlock.

It was as if his brother had been swallowed up whole and completely disappeared. 

Last time something like this happened, Mycroft had missed the obvious signs and been to slow on the ball, and when he had finally jolted into action, his main focus had been to search through London so naturally it had taken some time to figure out that Sherlock had opted for leaving not only the city but the actual country. 

This time Mycroft had taken precautions for that possible eventuality but had come up empty-handed anyway.   
Surveillance with face-recognition had not spotted his brother at any borders, Sherlock had not been seen on a single CCTV-camera and the last sight was of him leaving their own house the night Mycroft had ordered him to leave, the camera above the door recording him as he turned left up the street and then disappeared.   
The next camera available was at an intersection close to Holland Park but it had not recorded any sighting of Sherlock, so he must have either taken a turn earlier or got himself into a vehicle. The more Mycroft considered this option, the more plausible did it seem. 

The question was, had it been a spur of the moment or a deliberate choice, a stolen vehicle or someone waiting for him? 

Considering the fact that John Watson was still missing as well, it could very well mean that he had a significant part in Sherlock’s disappearance, but Mycroft conceded that the pieces were still not fully fitting into place. 

The doctor had been brought to the house in Mycroft’s own car and the decision to pick him up was not a planned one, originally initiated on account of the run-away manoeuvre John and Sherlock had participated in earlier during the day, so there was no way for John to have planned ahead for things to pan out they way they had.   
The kiss could have been planned of course, the doctor had clearly been lusting after Sherlock for some time already, but all the other events of the evening were too unpredictable to result in some meticulously planned arrangement. 

But the more Mycroft thought about it, the more convinced did he become that whatever it was John had been after when striking up a contact with Sherlock in the first place, he could not have been in it on his own. Despite not having spent too much time in the presence of the other man, Mycroft knew that John was simply not clever enough to pull off a scheme of this magnitude, whatever the premises of that scheme actually was.   
No, someone else was clearly the brain of the operation if there actually was one, and if so, it suddenly wasn’t surprising to consider that a car had been present that night, ready to pick up both the doctor and then, afterwards, Sherlock as well.

One nagging question remained though. Had Sherlock been in on it as well and what was the actual endgame behind all of this?   
Was someone trying to get to Mycroft through Sherlock? 

That was a likely scenario, one that he had often feared and also partly was the reason for his extensive control regarding Sherlock, the incessant need to know where he was, so as no one was to take advantage of him.

But since his brother’s disappearance no one had reached out to him, no message or a phone call, demanding a ransom or some specific piece of information only Mycroft was privy to. That was speaking against the theory of Sherlock being kidnapped to get to him, a lot of time had already passed since Sherlock's disappearance, surely a kidnapper would have reached out by now?

Not a lot of people outside the very limited world of the highest echelons of the country knew who Mycroft was and what knowledge he possessed, but it was always a risk being the smartest person in the room. People felt threatened and tempted to get their hands on a piece of what he had, it was a part of the job he had always been aware of. 

Despite that, he had never fallen prey for it before. 

Sure, some attempts had been made to put him in incriminating situations to blackmail him afterwards, but no one had ever succeeded, as Mycroft in general stood above the weaknesses of normal people, never overindulging in anything that could be thought scandalous. 

With the exception of his relationship with Sherlock of course. 

But no one knew of that.   
There was something about the subject of incest that automatically made people never cross that line while thinking about a situation that they found odd, it was so unthinkable it simply never presented itself as an option. The most recent evidence of that theory was John Watson. 

Mycroft had digressed from his usual caution regarding openly displayed affection for his brother in front of others, during that fatal dinner. The wish to ingrain the power and importance he had in Sherlock’s life and flaunt it in the other man’s face had for once overcome common sense. 

So he had offered that spoon of sauce blatantly and Sherlock had actually responded satisfactory as well, and yet the doctor had been as clueless about the undercurrent of that action as he had been all along.  
No doubt it was also partly because John had such as strong wish to keep Sherlock to himself and love was blinding after all. People always only saw what they wanted to see and that had kept Mycroft's relationship with Sherlock in the dark for years.

Mycroft closed his eyes at the memory of Sherlock’s luscious lips closing around the spoon and the rumble of that familiar voice when it had declared it to taste _adequately_ with a hint of tease, those beautiful shimmering eyes of his brother's twinkling alluringly. 

It wasn’t too many nights ago that the very same mouth had engulfed Mycroft’s erect cock in his very own bedroom, that specific memory bringing even more pain to an already agonising situation.   
Mycroft couldn’t bare it any longer, he needed for Sherlock to come back right this instant. 

He knew things had deteriorated between them lately and the guilt he still felt for his outburst and punishment with the belt didn’t do him any favours, but they could work it out surely?   
He was even willing to forgive Sherlock his little transgression of kissing the doctor, if he just came home! 

But the question of that possibility still remained. 

Maybe Sherlock wasn’t able to leave of his own accord? Either he had participated in some elaborate scheme to elope together with John Watson or otherwise he was held captive.   
Whatever the scenario, Mycroft was not giving up. He fully intended to bring his brother home, no matter what, whether Sherlock would be joyous about that outcome or kicking and screaming in protest.

\-----------------

Moran caught up with John as he was headed for Sherlock’s room.

“Nice nap, was it? You look much perkier.”

“I’m not an infant, I just needed some rest, that’s all,” John growled but Moran didn’t seem specifically deterred by the slightly hostile tone. Instead he held out a black phone.

“Take this. It’s time to make a little video for Big Brother. By now he’s probably climbing the walls with anxiety, we better put him out of his misery, don’t you think?”

John looked at the proffered phone in Moran’s calloused hand, unwilling to take it. 

Getting the plan rolling meant that Moriarty would soon remove Sherlock from not only his brother but John as well and John wasn’t ready to let go when things were still so unresolved between them. He needed to know what the kiss had been all about, that he hadn’t imagined the spark he had felt. And of course, he wanted to know the whole story about the situation with Mycroft and what it actually meant in reality. 

“I thought you said there wasn’t any reception here, what good will that do us?” he tried stalling, nodding at the phone.

“It’s for you to be able to film a little sequence, Watson. Obviously _not_ for trying to initiate any direct contact with Mycroft Holmes, how stupid do you think I am? He would trace it immediately if given the opportunity. We just film a little message for him, transfer it to a computer that will edit out any telling details and then it will be sent to him through a backdoor VPN tunnel from a computer located in Scotland, untraceable and anonymous.”

Still not reaching for the offered phone, John asked:

“What kind of message do you want it to be? Is Sherlock going to do the talking himself? Will it be a scripted message or what is it that you have in mind?”

Moran was beginning to show signs of impatience by now but apparently made the effort to still sound calm when answering. 

“He won’t have to do any talking at all. Just film him for a few seconds, the boss will take care of the actual message. We expect this whole mission to be over by tomorrow and you’ll be back in London this evening at the latest. Holmes has likely been to your flat in your absence so work on a good cover story for your absence or he’ll suspect you of being part of his brother’s disappearance. We won’t give him any reason to think of you as anything but ignorant about it, but you need to do a little work as well. Here, come on, take the phone and get started! The boss wants to get this wrapped up so he can leave with junior when it’s done.”

“Where will they go?”

Moran shook his head, a hint of smugness lingering at the edges of his lips now.

“Not for you to concern yourself with. And don’t get any funny ideas about trying to come with them, it really is much more beneficial for you to return to London as soon as possible. Your absence right now is probably giving Holmes veritable nightmares when he thinks about what that suggests in regard to his brother’s timely absence as well.”

John snatched the phone and turned on his heels, not bothering to answer.

“Watch it, Watson, your temper is showing!” he could hear Moran call after him as he left, but not bothering to turn his head to give his employer a glare. 

He needed to think and do it quickly if he was to come up with something to prevent the following events.   
He was certainly not willing to just play some stupid mediator between two men with far too much power between them and a shared interest in the man John had come to think of as a possible candidate for himself.   
He was still uncertain about what Sherlock really felt about him but no time better than the present to find out.

As he opened the door to Sherlock’s room, he saw the younger man sitting with legs akimbo on the bed, his hands in a praying position under his chin, eyes closed.   
He didn’t acknowledge John’s presence as he stepped inside and John took the opportunity to really look at him.   
Despite Sherlock’s damaged back and the lack of sleep as well as a the neglect of a proper meal of food since the small scraps he had taken during dinner with Mycroft, he looked well, serene in a strange kind of way. Almost not present, as if he was so deep in thought he didn’t notice what happened around him.

John hesitated for a second but as it had paid out so well the last time, he made his decision to try out a theory and stepped up to the man on the bed and leaned in close and pressed his lips to his, his heart pounding in his chest, already partly regretting his actions while at the same time feeling that there was nothing he would rather do than get what he could from the man in front of him, while he still had the chance.

At first nothing happened and he stared into the still closed eyes of Sherlock, trying to enjoy the soft sensation of his lips while a worry of having overstepped the mark made itself known. 

Just as he was about to step back, truly worried now by the lack of response, Sherlock suddenly let out a loud gasp while flailing backwards on the bed, his eyes flying open in surprise and his hands managing to catch himself before he landed on his back. Despite the bed being very soft, the impact on his wounds would have caused huge pain and discomfort.

John immediately stepped back, his hands going up in a placating gesture.

“Sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t realise…! Were you… _.sleeping_?”

It hadn’t looked like it but at the same time, Sherlock’s reaction had been as if he had been abruptly woken up and who knew, everything else was so unusual about him, maybe the way he slept was unusual as well?

“Mind palace,” came the cryptic reply in a mumbled voice and John frowned.   
What did that mean? Palace what?

But before getting the opportunity to ask, John noticed how Sherlock’s eyes fell below his waist, where the black phone was sticking out from the pocket of his jeans. And being the clever creature that he was he seemed to immediately grip the situation that lay in front of them.

“Time to send the obligatory ransom message is it?” he sighed before he swung his impossibly long legs and got up from the bed while John stepped back a little to give him some space, choosing not to respond.   
What was he supposed to say anyway? Sherlock seemed to grasp the picture well on his own. 

Resembling a captured feline in a too narrow cage, Sherlock started pacing the room now, and John wished that he could have reached out and calmed him down a little, the despair was so evident in both his movements as well as in his eyes it was quite heartbreaking to see.

“You _do_ know that if we send him anything Mycroft will be here in a heatbeat?” he said finally, his head snapping to look at John before he reached the end of the room and had to turn so he could pace back again.

John wasn’t sure how he was supposed to interpret that. 

Considering that Sherlock and Mycroft had been sleeping together for years, indulging in a sexual relationship of a highly doubious character, it could be something Sherlock actually wanted to happen, but the tone in his voice indicated something else. 

Instead of trying to guess the reason behind it John decided to ask straight out instead.

“Is that what you want?”

This apparently agitated Sherlock immediately.

“No, why would I want that?! I have no desire to return to his prison ever again. I don’t want to stay _here_ either, but I'm not willing to go back.”

John couldn't help but let out a tone of scorn when he replied, despite knowing it would only aggrivate Sherlock even more.

“Why not? I’m told you share something quite special, you and your _brother_.” There was an obvious hint of jealousy sneaking in to colour the last word of the sentence. Despite that the very idea of incest made his stomach turn, it also made John surprisingly jealous as well. It was stupid, but he could hardly help it.

Sherlock’s eyes immediately narrowed. 

“Did your boss tell you that?”

John's answer came instantly.

“Why? Is it true?”

Sherlock went quiet again but didn’t stop pacing. 

John waited with bated breath, he really needed to hear this from Sherlock’s own mouth, whatever the answer was.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock finally said and John couldn’t help but bristle a little at that.

“Of course, it matters! It’s illegal for starters! And the way that relationship looked like to an outsider, it can’t have been a healthy one. Did he force you into it? Moriarty mentioned something about you being barely legal of age when it began...”

Sherlock made one of his overly dramatic gestures with his hands burying themselves in his raven curls before he slumped back down on the bed like a Victorian heroine swooning, narrowly avoiding landing on his back by twisting at the last minute so he ended up on his side instead. 

“Oh, it’s so all too tiresome to even bother explaining! Moriarty just mentioned it to stir things up anyway, he thrives in chaos, loves to cause trouble. This, everything here, is orchestrated just for his pleasure of entertainment, you know that don’t you?”

“Sounds exactly like someone else I know...," John said with a meaningful tone. "Moriarty said that he knew you from before, that the two of you had met preiously. Is that how he knows about you and your brother?”

“That's how I know that he loves every second of this. We have indeed met before, even if it is something I have chosen to put behind me. He claims it has happened twice but I only remember the one time. It was years ago, I was high and he had cash as well as drugs on offer, combined with an endless imagination. I guess I must have let something slip about my personal life, but I can't be sure, that night is a bit of a blur quite honestly and far from my proudest moment.”

“Did he tell you about the cicumstances of the other meeting between you? If it happened before or after the time you do remember”

“No, not much, but it was apparantly before the night I'm alluding to. He said I would figure it out one day. It was something to do with a pair of trainers... I wasn’t exactly at the top of my game that night so I might have missed a clue or two, it doesn’t really matter, I have no interest in him. He on the other hand seems to think that we could continue where we left of last time.”

“And what does that mean exactly?” John could barely contain his irritation now. Despite giving Sherlock straight up questions, the answers he received in return were just causing even more confusion.

“He paid me in drugs to do things on a dare, stupid things, some of them a bit... illegal. I figured out what he did for a living and since then he has certainly built himself quite the empire. We had a shared interest in criminal activity, he in committing crimes, me in investigating them instead, reading about them in the papers, trying to solve them, for fun. I think we actually managed to come up with the most watertight criminal scheme possible between us that night, I remember him saying that I had given him some wonderful ideas for the future. I guess he made some of them come true by the looks of it. A veritable crime lord now isn’t he? Back then he was just some small time crook in Galway, a little fish in a not too big pond. I don’t know if I should congratulate him on making it this far, it is quite fascinating when you think about it...”

“No, Sherlock,” John interrupted and shook his head in dismay, “ a person turning into a better criminal than he was before is not something to be applauded.”

“It could be?”

“It really couldn’t.”

Sherlock snorted but didn’t offer any further protestations on the subject. As nothing more was forthcoming, John decided to take back control by trying to focus on the matter at hand.

“They expect me to film a message for Mycroft so they can blackmail him into giving them a piece of information that Moriarty wants. Moran will probably come and see how things are progressing soon enough. It seems, all he does is sneak around wherever I am, trying to provoke me more by each time.”

“You can always fool them. If you really wanted to," Sherlock said, scrutinizing John in that manner he had when trying to read how he really felt about something. "If Mycroft gets here and finds out you were a part of this, you will be killed. It’s not even a question of if, but rather of when it will happen. I go back to being his prisoner and you lose your life.”

“Sounds like I get get an even shittier deal than you then,” John muttered and was not even remotely surprised when Sherlock replied that the topic could actually be debatable. 

But then, as if suddenly remembering something, he sat up once again and gave John a slightly sly look.

“We can arrange for neither of that to happen though,” he purred and John had to stop his own libido from instinctively reacting to that sound. The logical part of his brain was still operating, even if temporarily under duress, and it told him that when Sherlock made sounds like that it would most likely bring doom to his own wellbeing. Instead he tried to stay resolved.

“What do you mean by that?” he said.

“If we work together and cooperate, we can actually stop being unwilling participants in a game that was originally designed by other to make us do what they want us to do. You have your boss and I wont even have to guess to know that he is the one who’s been behind all of this from the beginning. And I hardly have to tell you who I have trying to control me. But I think it is time we started doing what we want for ourselves. And I actually have a pretty good idea of how to do it.”

John looked at Sherlock and he longed to just step up and kiss that mad hatter one more time, because there was something so childishly endearing about his blatant enthusiasm in the face of danger and his stubborn belief in his own cleverness, making it very difficult to not be dragged along when he started to spin his tales, however dangerous and unrealistic they might seem. 

On the other hand, John had not known Sherlock to ever having been wrong in the past. Despite facing what felt like an indestructible challenge, Sherlock might actually have a plan to get them out of this mess and if nothing else, John could at least hear him out.

But the first sentence that came out of Sherlock's mouth was not an encouraging one.

“I was thinking that I was going to try walking out of here…” he began and John immediately groaned inside.   
Alright, maybe Sherlock had lost it after everything that had gone down the last 24 hours? No one would be expected to keep up their A game after what he had been through after all.

“Alright…” John said, discouraged. “That doesn’t sound plausible at all, but go ahead. Do your pitch.”

Sherlock looked slightly insulted by this but then drew himself up a bit and haughtily continued.

“We have two major obstacles as I see it. Moriarty for me and Mycroft for you. Well, technically Mycroft is my problem as well, but he isn’t likely to harm me the way he will harm you when finding out what you have done.”

“Really? Those lashes on your back tell a different story” John protested but Sherlock simply shook his head.

“Those lashes are exactly why he won’t hurt so much as a hair on my head right now. He’s most likely regretting his actions immensely at the moment. Even more so because of the aftermath. So let’s stick to him being your problem primarily. “

“Great,” John grumbled quietly and secretly wondered who he preferred to have as his enemy anyway, Moriarty or Mycroft.

“For you, what we need to do, is to wash yourself off anything that has to do with me. When Mycroft catches up with you, and he will eventually, you will have no idea about my whereabouts. That bit is essential.”

“Might be tricky considering that we are stuck here together. For now at least. Moran says I being sent back to London tonight so that will get us separated soon enough.”

“Yes but that still leaves me stuck with _my_ biggest obstacle, and that wont do. Therefore, as I said, I’m getting out of here, while you’re actually going to stick around for a little while.”

John sighed.

“And how do you suppose this is somehow going to happen? Need I remind you that neither of us is the one in charge here?”

“You do the easy part of staying in here and await my signal. The signal is going to be the fire alarm going off. When you hear it, you will know that I have hopefully managed the first part of our plan and you can run out of here and await the arrival of the cavalry, the cavalry being men Mycroft have sent her to retrieve me."

John immediately opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock held up his hand in a stopping motion. 

"Wait for me to finish. When Mycroft's men arrive, inform them that your presence out here in the middle of nowhere is on account of a retreat or a conference or something equally stupid. You’re mixing work with pleasure or whatever it is people say when they go the places like this.”

John was not willing to stay quiet any longer, cutting Sherlock of now.

“Wait, slow down a bit. What was that about the fire alarm?”

Shelock instantly waived away John's obvious concern.

“No need to worry about it, it’s just a signal. Step outside when hearing it and you’ll be fine."

"So there wont be an actual fire?"

Sherlock hesitated for a second and by that telling John that he was not going to like whatever came next.

"Well, for the alarm to go off there might actually need to be a small fire. Nothing for you to worry about though. Just leave the building when you hear the signal and then stick to your story about the reason for being here and they will let you go. Their focus will be on finding me anyway. When they have established that I’m not here, they’ll leave. “

“And where will you be if not here?”

“The less you know the better. Remember what I told you about investing in some acting classes? That still applies. You’ll thank me for it later, when one of Mycroft’s agents will try interrogating you about my whereabouts and you would try lying through your teeth without success. This is by far the better option. This way you don't have to lie when you say that you haven't a clue of where I am.”

John took a deep sigh and tried to wrap his mind around all of this. 

“And why would I do any of this? Need I remind you that I am actually a part of the group of people that keep you here, however reluctantly. You claim that Mycroft will be the death of me, but if I stick to Moriarty's plan he might not actually find out anything of my involvement at all.”

Sherlock contemplated him quietly with those mesmerising eyes of his before seemingly coming to a conclusion and jumped down from the bed to step up to John where he was standing stubbornly with some distance between them. Confidently he put each of his elegant hands over John’s cheeks while looking straight into his eyes.

“You're right. You can chose to do this however way you want to and take a chance on Mycroft never finding out about your involvement. I'm not denying that it could work out for you and Mycroft would be none the wiser. But in making that choice I think you're forgetting about a critical factor that should be included in your calculations." 

"And what factor is that?"

"That you have a weakness John, and I’m going to take full advantage of that weakness right now.”

With those words Sherlock leaned forward and planted a lingering kiss on John’s lips and John, to his utter chagrin and embarrassment immediately responded by leaning into it. 

When it finally broke again John had to step back a few paces, his back touching the wall, as he tried to regain his breath as well as his wits. 

He wasn’t prepared for any of this and while enjoying the kissing part and Sherlock’s proximity, he felt that the conversation leading up to it had taken a worrying turn. Composing himself, he took a deep breath and then said, just to prove that a kiss, however delicious, could not turn his attention away from the matter at hand and the risks with Sherlock's plan.

“I might have a weakness when it comes to you and yes, you've proven your point about me. But the same can not be said about Moriarty. Do you actually believe that a man who has made the effort to kidnap you has not taken precautions to prevent your escape? We are talking about a veritable crime lord here.”

Someone had to say it if Sherlock was truly considering being foolish enough to try walking away from this place unhindered. 

Not surprisingly though, Sherlock was not listening to reason.

“I met him earlier today, so I know that he hasn’t made any extra precautions for my continous presence here. He has based this whole operation on unexpected circumstances as well as assumptions based on a person he met years ago. He doesn’t think I will make a run for it or even make an attempt, therefor this is just a house that, granted, is very secluded, but otherwise unequipped with any sort of security system beyond the men he employs. Considering that you are allowed to walk around unsupervised despite being the weakest link in this whole operation, he thinks this will be a smooth sail and has not bothered with anything particular to keep us here. Had he known in advance about the exact outcome of last night he might have prepared better perhaps, but the way everything turned out quite unexpectedly, with me more or less falling into his hands by pure accident, there wasn’t any time for him to do any proper preparations, so moving us as far away as possible from my brother had to make do. For a man uniquely gifted in mathematical calculations and the formula of probability, Mr Moriarty is surprisingly lacking under the circumstances and will most likely do a better job next time.”

“ _Next_ time?” John splurted. 

“Oh, there will always be a next time. I think he and I will both be better prepared for future eventualities. And that is also precisely why I can _not_ return to Mycroft this time, it would bring ruin on too many levels, put his career in jeopardy as well as my own wellbeing. They both see me as the irreparable drug addict who can’t cope on his own, brilliant but wasted talent, and that is their greatest mistake. None of them have payed closer attention to the fact that things has shifted this time and someone else has taken over the steering wheel.”

Sherlock stepped closer again and John felt the magnetic pull of him instantly but at the same time tried battling to stay in control.

“John. I’m not a person who ever says thank you or please, as my brother will undoubtedly tell you if asked about it. But just as circumstances have changed regarding a lot of other things lately, I am willing to make an exception and offer you a token of my gratitude, because your unexpected presence at this time in my life has proven to me that there are other options available for me if I am willing to take the step. The mystery you presented to me regarding who you were and what you were after, as well as the enjoyable times we shared while hiding from my brother, proved to me that things might not be too late for a change and fun times to be had in a future I up until recently thought was pretty much paved out for me, in a direction I wasn’t very keen on going towards.”

While he spoke he had come even closer and now he was positively looming over John who looked up into his eyes like a prey watching a predator dive in for the kill, his heartbeat quickening, his mouth going dry. For some reason he both wanted this, while he at the same time feared it a little bit. He was beginning to sense that getting involved with Sherlock Holmes could potentially be his undoing.

And sure enough, when Sherlock actually did finally lean in and reprised yet another tender kiss, John felt the last of his resolve crumble away and he knew that whatever Sherlock chose to do after this would have John’s seal of approval however hairbrained a scheme it would be.

Fifteen minutes later, with Sherlock’s curls slightly dishevelled from John carding his fingers through them, his lips slightly swollen from the extensive kissing, John panting to catch his breath, the doctor was as informed about the plan as his brain could physically manage when it came to process data while fighting for dominance with endorphins running wild inside of him. 

He knew that he should probably have made an objection somewhere along the line but Sherlock had proved to be a far too superior negotiator when deciding to put in the effort, and positively weak at the knees, John slumped down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. A thousand questions were swirling around in his head but only one managed to stand out more than the rest.

“Where will we meet? Afterwards I mean, when this is over?” he said, trying to steady his voice, his heart still pounding heavily from the excursion of an activity he hadn’t partaken in for a very long time, the good old-fashioned snogging of his late teenage years and early twenties. People his age usually had sex or they didn’t, but at lot was to be said about the underestimated pre-sexual activity of heavy kissing even if it left him hankering for more in equal measures.   
At least he had the promise of more to come eventually, he thought, although nothing truly ever was certain where Sherlock was concerned. 

“I’ll look you up. I don’t know how long this will take and things need to calm down a bit afterwards, if I going to make it without Mycroft catching me.”

“But is this really going to work? I mean, despite everything, there is a lot of ifs and buts in this plan of yours. Timing is basically essential as well as a huge portion of luck.”

Sherlock snorted at this.

“I don’t rely on luck, I rely on talent. But if things come to worse and Moriarty catches me in the act, I guess I will have to make my escape later on and succumb to fate. It will be much more difficult of course, he will be more alert after this, but I’m sure there are ways. I’m not willing to change from one imprisonment to another without putting up a fight.”

John sighed as he put his arms up against the headboard, waiting for Sherlock to tie him up.

“I don’t know if you understand how extremely skilled Sebastian Moran is at what he does. He was, still _is_ for all I know, an excellent sniper and military man, reflexes like a cat. You might not even make it out of this room.”

“What are you implying? That I’m not just as flexible?” Sherlock said with a wicked glint in his eye while effortlessly tearing up the shirt he had been wearing so he got a couple of long strips of silken cloth in his hands. Then he took two of them while he nimbly climbed up on the bed, straddled over John so he could reach his wrists and tied him to the bed. 

John watched the lean torso he had mere centimeter away from his face, that slim waist and the slightly broader shoulders, the ripple of firm muscles moving beneath that almost translucent soft skin and he felt the urge to reach out and touch, but was unable as Sherlock had now immobilised him by tying him up.

“Don’t make the knots too tight, I need to be able to loosen them when the fire alarm starts," he said instead, focusing on the slight rising and falling of Sherlock's chest as he breathed. John dearly hoped this would not be the last time he was to see that mechanism actively functioning.

“I _know_ that, John, it’s my plan after all. Stop fretting, I know what I doing.”

John kept staring at Sherlock's chest. _Please dont die_ , he thought. But on the surface he made no show of how worried he was.

“Been part of many escape plans, have you?” he quipped instead.

That wicked grin made a quick reappearance as Sherlock looked down on him.

“Numerous. I’ve quite the track record and Mycroft’s thinning hair on account of despair to prove that I am very experienced in the art of breaking out of confinements.”

Tampering down the uneasy feeing that sentence created inside of him, a picture of Mycroft keeping Sherlock a prisoner in some sort of sexual bondage game, immediately popping up inside his head, John tried focusing on the events coming up next instead.

As if sensing John’s nervousness, Sherlock leaned down one final time and planted a feather-light kiss on his lips and then he reached for another strip of the ripped shirt and put it as a gag in John’s mouth before climbing off the bed and placing himself behind the door, one of John’s sturdy boots in his hand. 

Then they waited.

As John had predicted, Moran eventually came to see how progress was being made on John’s assignment to film a message for Mycroft and as the door opened John barely had the opportunity to register the second Moran stepped inside and his eyes fell on John being tied up on the bed, realisation beginning to form inside his head, when Sherlock with all his might hit him over his temple with the steel-cap of the boot, driving the Colonel to some unbalanced staggering, unable to stave of the next blow that was delivered less than a second later, this time rendering him to an unconscious state. 

Like a heavy ox he fell to the floor, the slurred word of “ _whaa…_ ” escaping his lips before he lost consciousness. 

Straddling him, Sherlock quickly used the rest of his ripped shirt to tie Moran’s hand to his back, this time making sure the knots were tight and firm, disabling any chances of escaping his bond when Moran eventually woke up. The same procedure was done on his legs, tied firmly together, before Sherlock did the final act of blindfolding him with the final strip of cloth. 

Satisfied with his work, he emptied Moran’s pockets, taking both a gun, a cell phone, a small pocket knife as well as a key card and put it in his own pockets, putting on his jacket over his naked torso, followed by the Belstaff, before turning to John on the bed who was following his every movement, unable to speak because of the gag. So Sherlock had to do the speaking for them.

“This is it then. You know what to say, both to Moran and later to Mycroft’s men when they arrive. You succumbed to temptation and I used it to my advantage, Moran will understand and probably rule it out as partly his own fault since they deliberately sent you my way after all. The fact that you're gagged and tied up will prevent you from taking any larger blame, he will most likely see you simply as weak-minded. To Mycroft’s men you claim no knowledge of my whereabouts, you have no idea where I am and have not seen me since that fatal dinner last night. The fire will make any more detailed searches of this place impossible so there will be no evidence of me ever having been here. Moran will catch on to your story quickly enough if you lead the way and most likely will corroborate it, he must be just as unwilling to get on my brother’s radar as everybody else. You’re simply here on private matters and make sure to put in that military tone you use when affronted about something, it’s quite effective and will appeal to their need for authority. It will make them leave you alone soon enough.”

He gave Moran a quick glance over, then he looked at John again.

“Bye John,” he said simply. 

And with that he was gone.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Sherlock makes a run for it.

Sherlock had no intention whatsoever to follow through with any of the promises he had made John before leaving the room.  
Just as Mycroft was not to know of his continuous whereabout, John was also going to be kept in the dark about it. He was a reasonably smart man after all and would eventually figure out that Sherlock wasn’t coming back.   
It simply wasn’t a safe option if he wanted to spring free of his old chains and begin anew somewhere else

The experience of kissing John as thoroughly as he had while presenting his escape plan, had been a novel one. Sherlock had not been with a lot of men besides Mycroft and certainly not when not under influence. There had only been Victor.

But kissing John had felt good. Different.   
Had circumstances not been what they were, Sherlock wondered if he might even have enjoyed taking things a step further. As the situation was now, that outcome wasn’t an option but at least he had made sure that John would be safe, where Mycroft was concerned anyway. 

Whatever men his brother handpicked himself from the staff available to him from both MI 5 and 6, they were alway easily manipulated when presented with the scheming of Mycroft Holmes younger brother, and Sherlock had no doubt that without any proof whatsoever of him having been here, they would not waste their time on two ex-military men and their somewhat eccentric employer indulging themselves on the countryside. 

How much Moriarty was willing to play along with the story like John and Moran would, was questionable, but on the other hand, if he didn’t want to risk the wrath of the unofficially most esteemed member of the British Government without preparation, even he should be able to see the benefit of confirming their story. 

Not that Sherlock cared much for the continous fate of the Irish crime lord.

The key card he had procured from Moran was a veritable goldmine as an asset, it made it easy to examining the rooms quickly without bothering to try cultivating all the locks.

Therefore, it took a surprisingly short time finding the blocking device he knew must be activated to block all cell phone reception.   
The surprising thing about these devices where always how dumbed down they were for users, as if built for people with a low IQ to be able to operate them.   
Well, the criminal classes weren’t exactly known for being the smartest tools in the box, perhaps it was a necessity for them to be able to use these things. 

Moriarty was different though. There was a brilliant mind as close to his own as was ever possible, even if undoubtedly unhinged. With the exception of Mycroft of course, Sherlock seldom met people who could challenge his mind on the same level as his own thoughts could, so there was something refreshing when encountering such a person. 

Too bad Moriarty had some other, less desirable traits as well.

Sherlock knew he could certainly be described as a wild card himself, impulsive, untamed, eccentric and so forth, but where this could at best be described as perhaps quirks and instability in his case, Moriarty was full blown crazy. 

Still, there was something intriguing about him despite the feeling of unease Sherlock experienced in his presence, and when gaining some better grounding beneath his feet, Sherlock would certainly look into the activities of the Irish man more closely. 

As it was now, he needed to focus on getting out before he was discovered.  
He knew that the second he turned off the blocking devise Mycroft would be alerted to John’s whereabouts, not doubting for a second that his brother was trying to keep close tabs on John’s activities after everything that had happened between them. 

After that, all hell would likely break lose and Sherlock needed to be gone by then. But Moriarty and whatever henchmen he kept in this place would certainly be alerted as well soon enough of the device being turned on, so the diversion in the shape of a timely little fire was what he needed to do next.   
A fire was always a risky business, it was difficult to ascertain its nature and tendency to spread, but if limiting the damages to a contained area it should hopefully be alright. Telling John that he was an experienced escape artist had not been a complete lie, he had done his fair share of run-away attempts over the years and learned a thing or two, included in that knowledge was the experience of the most effective way when you had poor resources at you disposal but still needed to create a diversion and cause a temporary chaos, was indeed to start a fire. 

It was easily done as he, as an avid smoker, always carried a lighter with him inside a secret little pocket in the lining of his Belstaff coat, not noticeable for anyone when doing a quick search. Mycroft detested his brother’s smoking habits and sometimes ordered his men to search him for packets or lighters but they always failed to find this particular hiding place. 

The problem he was facing now was more on how to keep it a controlled fire, big enough to cause a diversion but still contained to this room, long enough for the alarm to go off in the hall and alert John to rescue both himself as well as Moran on time. 

Mycroft was fast but as Sherlock had no real perception about how far away they were from London it was difficult to calculate exactly how the timing would be and he didn’t want to burn down the house while people were still in it, so he needed to be careful about his decisions and yet it needed to be done to help him escape. 

The arrival of Mycroft’s men as well as the fire would be sufficiently chaotic for him to be able to escape under everyone’s radar. Before Moriarty found out that something was going on, he needed to get out of the house, but running away on foot would simply be stupid, so he needed a vehicle if he was going to make it safely away from here and that was where the imminent chaos could help him out.

Whenever a fire was involved, primal instinct always kicked in and everyone’s attention would be on the danger in front of them so the chance of him managing to approach an available vehicle was looking good. 

As he had memorised the layout upon arrival to this place, he had at least three manageable escape routes and getting out of the actual house undetected would probably not be a problem, but it was the “what then” that was the weakest part of his plan, a point John had meekly tried pointing out but Sherlock had stubbornly refused to acknowledge. But it wasn’t a complete impossibility.

With Moran knocked out and John tied up inside the cellar room, Sherlock at least for now only needed to worry about Moriarty and the eventual henchmen he had available. There was no way to know exactly how many of them there was, and he simply didn’t have the time to find out, so he needed to focus on arranging the fire instead and then get out of here.   
If he encountered an unexpected obstacle in the form of a guard or Moriarty himself, he would have to deal with it there and then.

The signal on the phone was already broadcasting he noticed, when giving the one he had stolen from Moran a quick look, and Mycroft would probably have picked up on it by now, so the clock was already ticking. 

Without further ado, he ripped down one of the curtains from the window, jammed it into a desk drawer that he left slightly ajar and then he set it on fire. The curtain was of a highly flammable fabric and the fire made a quick process of it, beginning to lick the insides of the desk drawer as he turned to leave.

Without further ado he opened the window and nimbly got out, stepping out on the narrow ledge and making his way across it until reaching the French balcony where he could easily swing down closer to the ground and reach a windowsill that helped him make the final jump to the ground. 

Being accustomed to both running away from home, escaping boarding school, rehab and Mycroft’s different houses on numerous occasions over the years, this was not much of a challenge. Landing softly on the lawn with both feet, he made sure that no one had seen him through the window he had just passed on his way down, and when concluding that the room was indeed empty, he started to run.

He made it all the way to a grove consisting of a small group of bushes and trees where he could duck inside and hide behind the foliage while keeping the house in sight. 

He wished that a pair of binoculars had been at his disposal as it would have made it easier to see more closely what happened inside the house, but he had to make do with only his eyesight. 

At first it appeared as if nothing really was happening, the house was just as quiet as when he had left it and not a person in sight. 

But then smoke started billowing out from the window he had left open when escaping, the oxygen fanning the flames no doubt, and even if he had closed the door to hinder a fast spread of the fire to the rest of the house, it was soon evident that the room itself was a full inferno by now. 

Nervously he started to think that he had perhaps miscalculated this whole idea about the fire as there was still no movement from anywhere else in the house and no sight of Mycroft’s cavalry either. 

John was still in there, as well as Moran, both tied up, the latter unable to escape without help from John and John was probably waiting patiently for the actual signal before daring to spring into action. Who knew what Moriarty was doing but a fire had a rapid time frame for spreading under the right circumstances and even if Sherlock had tried to contain it to a single room, that arrangement wouldn’t last forever. 

Just as he was contemplating what his actions should be if the fire alarm never went off and the fire started to spread too quickly, causing John to burn to death just because he was waiting for a signal Sherlock had claimed would tell him when to spring into action but actually never came, the shrill signal of the fire alarm finally broke the piece and quiet of the place, fully audible for him to hear despite the considerable distance and he actually let out a breath he hadn’t even realised that he had been holding.

To his huge relief he saw John come running out of the building a few minutes later, followed by Moran who he had apparently released from his temporary entrapment. They appeared to be arguing if their gesticulating arms was anything to go by. 

Three other man Sherlock didn’t recognise came running out as well soon after, just as the significant sound of a helicopter broke the air, coming in over the other side of the house like a menacing demon, black and looming, the rotating blades cutting the air while descending on the lawn in front of the house just as three cars came up the road in a strangely timed caravan, black as well, with bullet proof windows. 

His brother had been quick as expected and had all the necessary resources at his disposal to bring this sort of back up, government funded no doubt, MI5 or military trained for certain. Without actually being present himself, this was the equivalent of his brother in battle form, egged on specifically because the matter at hand was so personal to him. 

Sherlock looked at his clock. Eleven minutes since he had broken the blocking device. That was actually quite remarkable, if he hadn't known his brother he would not have thought it possible. A small part of Sherlock wished that he could have told Mycroft that was he impressed.

He kept watching the house as people came out of the cars as well as the helicopter, storming towards the people on the lawn. Moran as well as two other men started making a fuss with two of the agents while the others stormed the house despite smoke billowing out by now. John remained calm for the moment, he simply stood there watching Moran arguing with the agents. He looked like his thoughts were elsewhere.

Sherlock wondered where Moriarty was, he had not yet appeared, and the flames had started to lick the façade through the window. 

Despite that fact, the agents had headed straight inside, probably ordered by Mycroft to search for Sherlock no matter what, apparently fearing their boss more than a raging fire. 

It was a little strange that Moriarty had not made himself known but considering that Moran didn’t seem to look for his employer, it was perhaps a sign not to worry about it.

The situation was just the right amount of chaos with people’s attention mostly turned elsewhere for Sherlock to take full advantage of the sufficient lack of observation to make it in a quick sprint over to the vehicle parked furthest away from the action. He managed to reach it while everyone had their backs turned, reached inside to press the keys that were still dangling in the ignition, to open the trunk and then he quickly got inside. 

He had initially considered simply stealing the vehicle and drive off, but as he now saw the situation in front of him, he realised that people might be temporarily distracted for now but an actual car driving away all of a sudden would not go unnoticed and one of the other cars would certainly chase after him soon enough. 

Had he not been so pressed for time he could have slashed the tires of the other cars with the pocketknife he had stolen from Moran to prevent them from following him. But there was still the helicopter to consider, so out of all the options he had available, this was certainly the best choice for now.

Knowing full well that any car built after 2002 would not impose any risks of him suffocating inside the trunk, on account of a safety mechanism to make it easy both to receive sufficient oxygen as well as getting out when he wanted to, by pulling a release cable, he forced himself to relax despite the cramped space, trying to figure out what was happening outside and how long it would take for this part of the plan to be over with and for the car to head back to headquarters . 

He could hear angry shouting in the distance, imagining one of them to be John standing his ground against the agents who had interrupted his imaginary work holiday, but then things went quiet for a while. 

Eventually there was a return of sound with footsteps passing the car, people talking in muffled voices he couldn’t make out and finally the door opened and then slammed shut after what felt like an eternity. But no one turned the ignition to actually start the car. 

It was strangely quiet. Whoever was inside was apparently just sitting there.

Sherlock frowned, waiting for something to happen, wondering about the quietness, when he was suddenly startled by a voice beginning to talk. As the person talking was actually in the car instead of over by the house it made it easier to hear what he said, and Sherlock pricked his ears to listen.

“So, are you calling him or what, Dennison? He needs to be informed. We’re more screwed if we withhold information.”

The presence of another voice immediately made itself known, this one with a distinctly Mancunian dialect. Dennison apparently.

“But we aren’t certain yet.”

“What more proof do you need? He isn’t here. I haven’t the foggiest about what sort of military poncing that has been going on among that lot out on the lawn, and neither do I care. We have established that the brother isn’t anywhere near this place and the boss needs to be told so he can move on.”

“Isn’t it all a bit odd though? The fire? That story they gave us about being on a conference in the middle of nowhere? What do you suppose whey were really up to? That short bloke was quite agitated, as if we had interrupted his freaking honeymoon or something.”

“They could have been shagging, the whole lot of them, for all I care. Some sort of military kink maybe. It doesn’t matter to us. We have established what we came for, the person we’re searching for isn’t here and we need to report it and then head back to London.”

“What about the fire?”

“What about it? You saw it yourself; it’ll burn the house down before the fire brigade has any chance of getting here in time. That’s not our concern.”

“Shouldn’t we try investigating some more? I still think there’s something funny going on here.”

“Be that as it may, we have no cause to stay here once we have established that what we were sent to look for isn’t here. If you ask me it’s all a stupid goose chase anyway, the bugger is probably holed up somewhere with a needle in his arm by now, not giving a flying fig about anyone out there looking for him. It always surprises me that the Ice Man cares so much, didn’t figure he had it in him to have feelings.”

Things went quiet again. Then a deep sigh could be heard.

“Fine. I’ll make the call.”

Yet more quietness and then the same voice again, this time decisively more correct, making sure to sound nothing but professional.

“Sir, we are on location...”

The person at the other end said something and then the man called Dennison answered, a tone of actual defeat sneaking into his voice, unwillingly.

“He isn’t here and there is nothing to indicate that he ever was. We found Doctor Watson though and he was....in the company of four other men, apparently enjoying a little _excursion_ in the wilderness. He was rather upset by our presence and became even more agitated when we mentioned your name, Sir. Said that if he never heard your name again, it would be too soon.”

Another significant pause and then:

“We searched the house as best as we could but there had been an accident shortly before our arrival. The place is burning down as we speak. The fire brigade is on its way, and everyone present were already out on the lawn when we arrived, but we managed a quick search of the building before it became too dangerous. There is nothing to indicate that he was ever here, Sir. I’m sorry.”

It went eerily quiet and Sherlock actually closed his eyes as he could picture his brother’s face at the other end of the line and how worried he must be despite cultivating the ever-persisting persona of a man in control of both himself and every situation.

“Yes, Sir. We’re ready to depart. A written-down rapport will be on your desk as soon as we make it back. We can ask they fire men to share any findings they might come upon when the fire is put out.”

It went quiet again and the next time the silence was broken it was by the other agent who had not been speaking to Mycroft.

“What happened?”

“The bastard hung up. It’s not _our_ fault his brother is constantly causing trouble somewhere. It is always easier when he’s locked up in one of those facilities, then all we need to do is plant a camera, a microphone and bribe someone from the staff to satisfy any needs the boss has of wanting to know what the little cretin is up to. We can actually do some real work for a change.”

“You’re only saying that because this task is so bloody difficult. Keeping that guy under watch should be part of agent training or something. Or they should recruit him to volunteer for advice about how to track down a person like him, it’s mission impossible, I tell you.”

Sherlock held back the urge to snort at that. The incompetence of these people, it was laughable that they were among the finest the country had to offer when it came to their line of work. Maybe he should take them up on their offer to teach them exactly why they were always failing at their job. 

That notion kept him entertained for the next 30 minutes as the car was headed back to London and the two agents in the front had succumbed to idle chatter about ordinary and dreary everyday life topics. 

Sherlock was well prepared to make it all the way back to London if necessary and then make the final step of the escape from the garage, when a sudden, but better opportunity, presented itself, as usual on account of the stupidity of mankind and their bodily urges. 

The car pulled to a stop at what, going by conversation, had to be a gas station after having driven for over an hour, and one of the men, Dennison, needed to take a pee while the other one decided to go buy himself a coffee. 

As he heard their receding footsteps, Sherlock quickly pulled the release cable so the trunk opened and he jumped out and then, with the aid of Moran’s pocketknife tampered with the lock, while keeping close eye on the inside of the small station where one of the agents could be seen standing in line for a cup of coffee and most likely something sweet to go with it as well, as he looked like a man with a hankering for sugar.

The door was easily manageable and he quickly got inside the car and made a short procedure of jumpstarting it with the tip of the knife wedged inside the ignition so he could turn it as if the actual key had been used and the car came to life with a satisfying sound of the motor starting. 

He cast a swift final glance at the agent who was now stepping up to the counter to place his order, still completely unaware that his car was about to be driven off this very second. And with that satisfactory conclusion, Sherlock pushed the gas pedal and left, content in the knowledge that he was finally free.

\------------

Six months later

He turned to look at the picture at the front of the post card.   
It wasn’t the usual tourist drivel that made out 90 percent of the motifs usually sold in kiosks around Europe. This was one of those little picturesque shops posing as being from the days of yore but decidedly had a too calculated touch to every detail of the inventory to completely pull off the illusion. He had entered it to buy himself a pack of cigarettes and his eyes had accidentally fallen on the rack of postcards by the counter.

This particular card depicted a painting by Waterhouse called Sleep and his half-brother Death. Sherlock only knew this because he had once seen the actual painting as a teenager, while on a visit to a friend of the family who had it in his private collection. 

Mycroft had been there as well, and it had been in the beginning of their sexual relationship where everything had been so very brittle but at the same also precious and exciting. Sherlock remembered that he had found it difficult to know how to behave around Mycroft back then, going from being mere brothers to becoming lovers and then something else, undefinable. 

Their relationship had always been deemed as complicated in one way or another no matter how you looked at it.

Not overly interested in art, the painting had still managed to catch Sherlock’s interest back then and it had somehow reminded him of himself and his brother the way the two brothers in the painting had been portrayed lying next to each other, in a very affectionate yet slightly eerie way. He wasn’t sure if it had been the topic of death and sleep that had caught his interest as well, two subjects where one of them fascinated him immensely and the other he found boring and seldom succumbed to, unless absolutely necessary. 

Mycroft had of course been full of useless information about the painting, such as the artist’s name as well as origin and year of completion, facts Sherlock cared nothing for. But apparently, he must have filed it away somewhere anyway, as he now, several years later remembered that it was painted by John William Waterhouse.

The name John still made something inside of him think of the doctor he had left behind, despite the fact that it was a very common name and therefor one he stumbled upon quite frequently.   
Every time it happened, and his thoughts automatically went to John Watson, he wondered how long that habit was going to last.

He wondered if John had given up hope of him ever returning again. 

It was difficult to say. 

They had shared something special but brief, in reality it was nothing more than a small shrapnel of all the things you experienced during a lifetime, it hadn’t even lasted a month. Technically there was no reason for either of them to be still thinking about the other, and yet he did and he suspected John did as well, although he had no way of proving this, so therefore was forced to submit himself to the whimsical and entirely unscientific method of having a gut feeling.

He knew for certain Mycroft had not given up hope on seeing him again. His brother was like a bloodhound in that regard, forever doggedly keeping the hunt alive. Until confirmed to be dead, Sherlock would always have his brother out there looking for him somewhere, some things never changed.

In the past it had annoyed him to no end, it had made him feel trapped and controlled and he had succumbed to old haunts and temptations because of it. But this time was different. It actually made him feel a bit safe and perhaps even loved.

He also didn’t mind it these days because he knew Mycroft would never manage to catch him if he really made the effort to stay out of sight. 

Sherlock turned it into a game after he had managed to leave England behind and after a while it became effortless to stay under the radar. The fact that he no longer had the disadvantage of Mycroft’s considerable surveillance resources made it even easier and despite roaming around the cities of Europe where CCTV was increasingly becoming a more prominent feature, he knew how to avoid the cameras and learned how to move about as he pleased whenever he came to a new place.

That talent became a huge advantage as he eventually picked up a long buried dream of his and started working as the world’s only consulting detective, an idea that came to him by accident when he stumbled upon a crime scene one night in Belgium and enjoyed the first insatiable rush of adrenaline, not caused by a chemical compound, surging through his body as he less than 24 hours later had managed to help a surprisingly amiable Detective Inspector by solving a cold-blooded murder, disguised as a suicide.   
The Detective Inspector who actually worked for Scotland Yard back in London but had been called out by his Belgian colleagues to aid the investigation as the victim had been a British citizen, was so grateful for Sherlock’s help with the case that he wanted him to come look him up if he ever came to London.   
He had given his card with contact information, D.I Gregory Lestrade it said in black letters on the plain white card and Sherlock had actually kept it, despite not intending to return to London or Britain within the foreseeable future. 

It was the first small step of many more to come and he spent the following next months doing his best to put his time and efforts into this new but very satisfying interest of crime solving.

But cases were sometimes few and far between and the looming threat of old temptations was sometimes difficult to tamper down. Especially when he felt lonely.   
He hated how nostalgia and sentiment could sometimes grab him quite viciously and he found himself thinking about London and John.   
And Mycroft. 

It was difficult to think of his brother beyond that shadow who was doing his outmost to catch him and bring him home. His head had, as time went by, managed to turn Mycroft into this sort of dark menace he should be weary of and stay out of grasp from. 

But a small part of him knew it to be wrong. It stung him to consider how worried Mycroft must be, still remembering his brother’s face when he had finally managed to track Sherlock down after the incident with Victor. 

It had been like looking at grief itself, new lines of worry and distress as well as guilt had etched themselves to Mycroft’s skin, his eyes brimming over with relief when they had finally seen Sherlock again for the first time in six months.   
It felt stupid to admit it but Mycroft had looked like he could have buckled from the weight of his legs going weak at any second. Sherlock had been under influence back then but he still remembered this detail vividly.

Mycroft hadn’t of course, as Sherlock had come closer, he had composed himself and by the time they were facing each other again, the mask of indifference had been up once more. But that first initial look when seeing his brother again after all that time, still haunted Sherlock sometimes, especially now as he knew what agony his brother was going through once more and that it was all on account of him. 

Sometimes it felt like it should have been easy to have just sent a simple text, to let Mycroft know that he was alright, that he was alive and actually quite well, but he had always changed his mind before actually doing it, afraid that it would somehow lead to Mycroft tracing his phone, coming for him once more.

But a post card?

He looked at it again before deciding to actually do it, paid for it and put it inside the pocket of the jacket he was wearing before he left.   
The motif would tell his brother who it was from and maybe it was a sign that he had stumbled upon it like this, even if the notion of destiny and universe was something neither he or his brother actually believed in.

Seated in a café later that afternoon he picked it up and started to write. 

_This is me sending you a postcard, in exchange for all the other times I should have done so in the past. To let you know that I am in fact thinking of you sometimes. Don’t worry about me, brother dear and don’t come looking for me. I’ll return when I ready and I am doing just fine on my own, so need for you to worry. I guess you’ll do that anyway though._

He contemplated adding something more but found that words were failing him.   
What did you tell a brother you loved but at the same time needed to be separated from in order to pull yourself back together, while simultaneously feeling guilty about the pain you were causing him by remaining out of contact but also enjoying a newfound freedom previously not experienced.   
This time he was clean, unlike the time he ran away after Victor, and he felt revived in a way he had not been able to remember himself feeling before. 

He could picture Mycroft being in his office when receiving the post card. It was just as unscientific as when he theorized about John missing him, but he imagined his bother experiencing that overwhelming sense of utter relief that would probably cause him to collapse in his chair when seeing the card and understanding who it was from, a tight knot suddenly releasing its iron grip around his heart as a smile started to form on his thin lips, while those blue eyes of his glistened a little, the sentimental old fool.   
And wasn’t it telling that Sherlock himself was thinking about how his brother would react to a simple postcard!   
Perhaps he was getting a bit sentimental as well.

Despite the way everything had ended between them, Sherlock missed Mycroft immensely sometimes.   
Not the way his brother had tried to smother him to submission and controlled every aspect of his life, but there had been love there too, Sherlock had never doubted it. 

For now though, he needed to do his own thing and begin leading the life he should have chosen a long time ago.   
Moriarty was probably still out there somewhere, if he had managed to escape the fire, as well as many other criminals that could keep Sherlock entertained for a lifetime if he wanted to. He just needed to make the choice. 

And as he put the card into the slot of the yellow post box outside the small motel where he was currently living, he knew he had made the right decision.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The summer guest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19237348) by [Snoozydog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog)
  * [Home At Last](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381108) by [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda)




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